Contraband
by Musical Redhead
Summary: "There are some men who enter a woman's life and screw it up forever." -Janet Evanovich - When that man is an NYPD detective and the woman is a nosy reporter from the Daily News, will they help each other in their respective jobs, or be distractions? Mystery #1
1. Mary Mary

**Title**: Contraband

**Chapter** **1**: Mary Mary

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

**A/N**: I'm back! With a fresh new story, as promised. For more notes on the story, you can always go to my LJ. Did you check out the genres on this story? Both will come into play. So before you start, it might not be a bad idea to repeat this mantra: This will be different, but I will give it a chance. Repeat it a few times, maybe meditate on it. Continue when you're ready. Oh, I should also mention that everything that happened on the show happened. This is a futurefic.

_Clearly, then, the city is not a concrete jungle, it is a human zoo. __–Desmond Morris [__The Human Zoo]_

**Mary Mary**

Tristan DuGrey cut the engine of his Camaro and stepped out into the cool October air. From the passenger side, his partner, Mark Stevenson, got out as well. The two men walked a short distance down the sidewalk to the alley, where a dead body was lying on the ground.

"What have we got?" Detective Stevenson asked one of the responding officers.

"The restaurant manager called it in. He was bringing some trash to the dumpster when he was getting ready to open. He found this guy when he got out here. The medical examiner should be here soon," the officer answered. "I could ask some people questions, if you need any help."

"Good one. You're done here," Tristan told him, jerking his head in the direction of the street. As he did so, Mark looked over to the other uniformed officer, who was still in the process of rolling out the yellow crime scene tape. Tristan had made good time when driving them there.

"It appears we're starting to attract a crowd," Mark observed. There were a number of people trying to gawk at the body the two men were next to.

"You'd think New Yorkers wouldn't be fazed by a dead body," Tristan commented.

"Well, at least the media hasn't shown up yet," Mark said, looking down the sidewalk. "Then again, I spoke too soon. I should have known Veronica More would show up. I wouldn't get close to _her_ with a thirty-nine and a half foot pole."

"Isn't she the one who wrote about—"

"Yup."

"Do we want her to leave? I'm pretty persuasive."

The brown haired man suspiciously shifted his eyes to Tristan, which didn't require much of an adjustment, as they were equal in height. "Are you going to get her to leave or get a date?"

"Both, if I'm lucky," Tristan answered with a sly grin. "Just point the way."

"Right there," the other man answered, nodding in the direction of a woman who was walking across the street.

Tristan looked in the direction that was indicated. Suddenly, he felt like Lenny Kravitz's _American Woman_ should be playing in the background as the brunette wearing a skirt suit with a white blouse and red scarf strutted confidently across the street and towards their crime scene.

Inside his chest, Tristan's heart did something weird. "Then again," he reconsidered, "I'm not feeling so lucky."

"Do I hear doubt?"

"Maybe. But, I guess I could still try. What did you say her name was again?"

"Veronica More."

"I don't think so," Tristan said with a shake of his head as he walked in the direction of the crowd—and the reporter.

Rory Gilmore was looking down at her small pad of paper, writing something, when Detective DuGrey approached the crowd that the other officers were keeping at bay. He showed his badge to the people before he spoke.

"There's nothing to see here, keep moving and give the police some room." For the most part, the crowd dispersed. He stood in front of the remaining woman expectantly, but she didn't move from her spot, or look up. "That means _everyone_, ma'am."

"Oh come on, I know I covered some cases from a couple other precincts last month, but don't tell me you forgot who I am," she said, still looking down at what she had written. With her left hand, she held out her press credentials that were hanging from her neck.

Tristan looked down at the information on the ID before he spoke again. "Mine still trumps yours," he said, indicating his badge. "And there's no way I'm calling you that, Mary."

She ducked her head around him to take a look at the body before looking back down to write a description. "The last person to call me Mary was—," she started with knit brows before finally looking up. She tilted her head and raised a brow in surprise before finishing her sentence, "you."

He grinned at her before responding. "Rory Gilmore, as I live and breathe."

She gave him a once over before continuing. "I hate to break it to you, but it doesn't look good for you if you were found with a dead body."

He gave a sarcastic nod of his head and held up his gold shield for her to see. She gave a single nod of understanding as he put it back on his belt. She took a step back and sized him up. He was wearing a black suit with a black button up shirt. He probably should have been wearing a tie, as well, but he was not. She assumed there was a gun hidden under his jacket, too.

"You're a cop?"

"It looks that way," he answered.

"I can't say that I've ever pictured you as a cop, Tristan."

"But you _have_ pictured me," he supplied easily.

She grimly shook her head. "I mean that it's a pretty blue collar kind of job."

"Yeah, literally. But it's probably hard for you to imagine me in a position that requires the use of my brain."

"There's that," she agreed with a smile. "When did you join the twenty-first?"

"I got transferred about a month ago," he answered, eyeing her.

Her smile faltered. "Oh."

"Yeah," he drawled, knowingly. "So, what brings you to this fine corner of Manhattan?"

"The dead body. Do they think it's a homicide?"

"They do, which is why I'm here."

"What a coincidence, it's why _I'm_ here, too. So, what can you tell me?"

"Not much, I got here just before you did. But at a glance I can tell you middle-aged, Caucasian male, shot in the chest."

"So, you don't know when it happened or who did it yet?"

"Nope, I have to figure that out."

"Yeah, unless I figure it out first," she commented offhandedly.

"Sorry?"

She looked up at him. "I'm not bad at this stuff, myself. I might even solve the crime before _you_," she said with a crafty grin.

"Is that a challenge?"

"Not at all. It's just a fact."

"We'll see," Tristan said skeptically. "I'm _pretty_ good at my job. I doubt you're better at it than I am."

"I guess we _will_ see," Rory answered.

"You know, now that I think about it, I can't say that I've ever pictured you stumbling on dead bodies, Miss Marple."

"I don't stumble on them. I rely on a police scanner to help me find them."

"Ah, I see."

"I'm a crime reporter."

"I gathered as much."

"For the New York_ Daily News_."

"You're not sitting in a fancy newsroom on Eighth Avenue, writing an Op-Ed column for _The Times_?" he asked in a mockingly surprised tone.

"No, not yet. But maybe some day."

"There's always some day. Well, I'd love to stay and chat, but I have work to do. Maybe I'll see you around, though," he said as he gave her a last look and turned to walk back to his partner and the body.

Mark looked up when Tristan got back. He looked over at Rory, still standing at the crime scene tape. "You didn't fend her off," he observed.

"Nope, I didn't get a date either. Although, I didn't try," Tristan admitted.

"Really? Is that your way of saying that she shot you down?"

"No, I really didn't try. There's no need to when I know the outcome," he explained before getting back to the matter at hand. "Did you find any ID on this guy?"

"Yeah, he's Daniel Steinberg, 53 years old. He lived on Tenth Avenue, here in Manhattan. He must have taken a cab or the subway here. There aren't any car keys on him."

"Can you tell how long he's been dead?" Tristan asked the African American woman who was on one knee, next to the body.

"Rigor mortis has only _just_ set in, so it's been about three hours. I'll be able to tell you more after I get him into the lab."

"The restaurant opened just a few minutes ago, at eleven, so we know he wasn't getting breakfast. Let's go talk to some people in this apartment," Mark said, indicating the tall brick building that shared the alley with the restaurant.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Meanwhile, Rory watched Tristan and the other detective as they finished collecting evidence and talked with the medical examiner. The body was covered up on a gurney and was being loaded into an ambulance as Rory got her cell phone out. She started to walk into the building next door to the restaurant. She pressed one of the numbers down on her phone and waited for someone to answer.

"Hello?" Paris Geller answered.

"Hey, how are you?"

"Fine, you?"

"Good, you will never guess who I just ran in to."

"Who?"

"Tristan DuGrey," Rory answered. "He's here at a crime scene."

"I can't say that I'm surprised, what is he getting busted for?"

"That's close to what _I_ said. But no, he's a detective for the NYPD."

"Huh."

"I know, who'd have guessed he'd grow up to be a cop?"

"No, that wasn't about the cop thing. Or even the growing up thing."

"What was it about, then?"

"I was just thinking that this must be a pretty good day for you."

"Why?"

"Well, you were so in love with him back in high school."

"Paris, I was _not_! You're getting me mixed up with _you_."

"If you say so."

"I do. Adamantly."

"Well, tell him hi for me."

"Sure. I need to go. I just wanted to tell you that."

"All right, talk to you later."

"Bye," Rory said before hanging up. She put the phone back into her purse and knocked on the first door on the south side of the hallway.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"Whoever our killer is got lucky with so many people at work already," Mark commented as he and Tristan climbed the steps up to the fifth floor of the apartment building. They rounded the corner and saw a woman with her fist up, about to knock on a door.

"_Rory_," Tristan said sharply. He startled her and she jumped. Her head turned over to the two men quickly and she put her hand down. "What are you doing?"

"I'm just trying to find some witnesses. You?" she asked as they approached her.

"Same," he answered.

"I told you she's the one who's a step ahead of us," Mark muttered to the blonde.

"Do you know each other?" Tristan asked the other two.

"By sight, it's Detective Stevenson, right?" Rory asked timidly.

"Yeah," Mark answered curtly.

Tristan sensed a slight awkwardness between the two.

"I see you downgraded in partners," Rory said to Mark, hoping to lighten the mood.

The man looked a bit surprised at the comment. "You mean Harvard, here?" he asked. Rory raised a questioning brow at Tristan as Mark continued. "Nah, if we were in school and he was the new kid, I'd be worried about him messing up the curve."

Rory quickly turned to Tristan and he cringed. "What did you tell him?" she demanded with a glare.

"Nothing," he answered as he unbuttoned his black shirt. "He came up with that ironic analogy all on his own."

"What are you doing?" Mark asked.

"Seriously," Rory added. "I have some money if you really need the singles that badly. You don't have to objectify yourself like this."

Tristan gave them both a sarcastic look. "I like proof, I'm just giving you some—otherwise you probably won't believe it," he told her as he pulled the sides of his shirt apart so they could see Harvard University written across the front of a crimson t-shirt.

"Hmm, I hear that's an okay school. It was my second choice, actually," she commented.

"Of course. I should have known _you'd_ be the only girl not to be impressed by it."

"Yeah. And you know, without a big red letter S across the front of your shirt, that was kind of anti-climactic," Rory commented as Tristan started buttoning his shirt back up.

He paused before answering. "I didn't know you wanted a climax, you should have just said so."

"Is that something women _usually_ have to ask you for?" she asked with a smirk.

Mark snickered and Tristan glowered at him fleetingly. "You shouldn't ask the tough questions if you're not willing to familiarize yourself with their answers."

"I'm a reporter. I _have_ to ask the tough questions."

"Yeah, well, if you play with fire you'll get burned."

"I'm not afraid of you," she scoffed.

Mark watched the exchange with a growing sense of confusion, which was starting to overtake his features. "Do _you two_ know each other?" he asked them.

"You could say that. Rory and I were in the same class in high school—for a time."

"Who?"

"Me," she clarified.

"I thought your name was Veronica."

"Is that your porn star name?" Tristan asked hopefully.

"No. I only use it for articles and when I'm talking to people out in the field. It's a pseudonym. My grandparents thought I needed one since I cover crime in the city. _I_ think they're just being silly, but I humor them—my mother came up with it. I even take self-defense classes."

"Are we going to do this? Or are we going to continue with the reunion?" Mark impatiently asked Tristan, indicating the search for witnesses.

"Yeah," the blonde answered. Mark walked a short distance down the hall. Rory put her hand back up, but Tristan snatched her wrist away before she could knock. "What are _you_ doing?"

"I already told you I was looking for witnesses. You need to work on your listening skills, Detective."

"_We_ are going to find witnesses," he told her, moving his index finger back and forth between Mark and himself. The other man was already knocking on the next door.

"Well, I beat you to it, so _deal_," she said, rapping on the door quickly with her other hand and looking up at Tristan defiantly.

He dropped her wrist and sighed in resignation. A minute later the door swung open and a tired looking man in his forties looked out at them. He must have worked the night shift.

"Hi, I'm a reporter for the _Daily News._ Did you happen to hear any gun shots?"

"When?"

"This morning, a few of hours ago, or so," Tristan supplied.

Rory discreetly added to her notes.

"I'm not sure," the man answered as he started to close the door.

Tristan stopped it with his foot. "How about now?" he asked, holding up his badge.

The man grudgingly opened the door back up. "I think I might have heard something when I got home from work."

"What time was that?"

"I got in just after eight. I heard a shot fired a little after that. Eight ten. Eight fifteen, maybe."

"And you didn't call the police?" Rory asked skeptically.

The man shrugged. "It's New York, there's a lot of noise. It could have been a car backfiring. Do you need anything else?"

"Do you know a Daniel Steinberg?" Tristan asked.

The man indicated that he did not. Rory started to write again, but Tristan took the pen from her hand. She indignantly scowled at him—which he ignored.

"Thanks for your help," Tristan answered and the man closed the door.

"That comes in handy," Rory said, indicating his badge.

"Yeah, it usually helps move things along," he answered. "It bodes well with me that authority impresses you."

The three continued up to the seventh floor in a similar fashion. Either no one was home or the gun shot was interpreted as background noise of the city. When they got to the upper floors, anyone who was home couldn't hear much over the construction going on at the top floor of the building. The last set of stairs was blocked off with caution tape, discouraging anyone from going further.

"I guess that's the end of the line," Rory observed.

"_You_ give up easy," Tristan commented as he and Mark continued up the stairs.

"No I don't!" she called out, scampering up the steps behind them.

When they reached the top floor, there were many men wearing hard hats and tool belts who were putting up dry wall and nailing wall frames. In the background, someone was using a power saw. Through the noise, Tristan asked who was in charge. They were directed towards a middle aged man looking over blue prints in the next room. He looked up when they approached.

"NYPD," Mark said, showing his badge. "Are you in charge here?"

"I'm actually number two. The contractor in charge hasn't come into work yet."

"Is he often late?"

"No, never. He isn't answering his phone, either," the man answered.

"What's his name?"

"Daniel Steinberg."

Rory looked at the two detectives, expecting them to exchange bleak glances. However, they went on without skipping a beat.

"Did anyone working here have a problem with him?" Tristan asked.

"Dan? No, he's worked for this company for twenty-five years and hasn't gotten into so much as an argument with anyone. He got along with everybody. Why?"

"He was found dead in the alley this morning," Mark answered.

"Shit, are you serious?" The two men nodded. "I'm sorry I don't know anything that can help you, here's my card if you need anything else, though."

"Thanks," Tristan said as Mark pocketed the business card. All three then started the long walk down the many flights of stairs.

"So," Rory started, glancing at Tristan, who was walking down the stairs to her left. "What have you been up to since military school?"

"This and that," he answered vaguely.

"_This_ sounds fascinating," she commented sardonically.

"Oh, it is. _That_ was only so-so."

"How was Harvard? Did I miss out on anything?"

"You mean other than my presence?" he teased before answering. "It was really good. I got a top notch education. Although, I'll admit, I didn't accomplish the goal I'd set out for when I went there."

"What goal was that?" Rory inquired as they rounded a corner and continued down the stairs.

They had about five more floors to go. Mark was descending the stairs at a quicker pace and had his phone out, ready to make a call.

"Well, I'd heard since kindergarten how generations of Gellers had gone to Harvard. So, I had no choice but to pull a Felicity and follow Paris there, hoping that I might catch her attention and win her heart again," he answered seriously.

"First, I'll ignore the fact that you just referenced _Felicity_."

"Thank you."

"Second, that's a blatant lie and you know it." Tristan smirked in response. "It's ironic that you should lie about looking for Paris, though. Because the truth of the matter is, _I_ was the one to find her—in my dorm room on the first day of Yale orientation."

"A higher power must really not like you."

She looked over at him pointedly. "Clearly."

"What, today? This is a sign. The higher power wants you to reconsider."

"Hmm," she said doubtfully. "Anyway, we're still friends."

"No, I'd call _us_ frenemies," he replied.

"Frenemies? Are you a sixteen year old girl? I meant Paris and me. I'll be her maid of honor next spring at her wedding."

"Well _that's_ a mystery I know I could never solve."

"What, that I'm friends with Paris?"

"There's _that_, plus the fact that someone is going to marry Paris Geller," he said. "I mean—," he held up his left hand so she could see his empty ring finger. "And—," he grabbed Rory's left hand and looked at her ring finger—which was also vacant. It made him feel . . . something. He chose to ignore the feeling rather than identify it.

"What's your point?" she asked as he let her hand slide though his fingers and fall back to her side.

"My point is that of the three of us, _Paris_ is the first to get married. Guy must be a real nutter."

"No, Doyle can handle her. And he's mostly sane. We all went to college together."

"That's cute," Tristan said with a slight mocking lilt to his voice. They were now at street level and were exiting the building. They both squinted in the sunlight.

"Well, I guess I should get back to the newsroom," Rory said. She started to walk to the curb to hail a taxi and Tristan glanced over at Mark, who was waiting at the corner.

He looked back over to the brunette, feeling an urge to do something. "Hey, Rory," he called. She looked back over. "Do you want a ride?"

"I don't want to you go out of your way."

"It won't be. We're going in that direction anyway."

"Well, as long as you don't mind."

"I don't." Tristan gestured for her to follow him. Mark joined them and gave Tristan an apprehensive look. "We're going to drop Rory off at the _Daily News_," he explained as they approached his car. He clicked the button on the key remote and the headlights flashed.

"This is your car?" Rory asked, looking from the sleek black Camaro to Tristan.

"Yup."

She made note of his black attire and the black car. "This explains the lack of a red S on your shirt."

"Why?"

"I have to ask—and tell the truth. Are you Batman?"

He grinned, pleased with the comparison. "On the record, no. While we share the title of 'World's Greatest Detective,' Batman drove a Cadillac."

"What about off the record?"

He cocked a brow. "Let me know when you want to swing by the Batcave for a tour and an exclusive interview," he said as he opened the driver's side door of the car and moved the front seat up.

Rory looked dubiously at the small back seat. "There isn't much room back there."

"You're small, you'll fit," he answered.

She flashed him a smile. "Is it weird for you to say that, rather than hear it?"

Mark grinned as he got into the passenger side.

Tristan momentarily looked bewildered before his jaw dropped in offended surprise. "Aren't _we_ feisty for a Monday? How about you get in the car before I change my mind?" he asked, a little annoyed now.

Rory complied and climbed in the backseat.

When they were all in the car and buckled, Mark addressed Tristan as he revved up the engine and pulled away from the curb. "So how long did it take?"

"How long did what take?"

"How long did she let you date her before you wronged her in some way? Because you clearly did."

"I didn't do anything!"

"I never let him date me, actually," Rory answered. "Not that that stopped him from telling people otherwise."

Mark looked out the window and muttered under his breath, "I see." He was not referring to the scenery flying by.

"And besides," Tristan added, "her type is tall, dark, and dim-witted."

"You don't know my type," she argued.

"What, did you switch to girls?" he asked with a grin.

"No_,_" she answered firmly.

"Well, do you only date black guys now? It's a tall order, but I think I can bring you back."

"No. And I don't have a _type_," Rory insisted. She turned to her right to speak to Mark. "So, Stevenson, where are you from?"

"Kansas," he answered, turning back to his travel companions.

"You're pretty far from home," she commented.

"Yeah, this city really never sleeps."

"He's not in Kansas any more," Tristan added.

"Now you're just being lame," Mark told him.

"I _know_ I didn't wrong you in any way," he said as he slowed down and came to a stop on Thirty-Third Street. "As charming as this devil's threesome is, it's time for us to go our separate ways." He got out of the car and put out a hand for Rory.

She took it and pulled herself out of the back seat. "Can I get police confirmation on what you told me today?" she asked.

He thought a moment. "Yes."

"Great, thank you," she said with a grin. "And thanks for the ride. I'll catch you on the flip side, Harvard."

"Yeah, see you later, Mary," Tristan said with a smile, watching her walk away before getting back into the car.

Mark eyed him somewhat hostilely.

"What?" Tristan asked.

"We're giving rides to blood sucking leeches now?"

"Relax, Mary's harmless," Tristan answered with a dismissive wave of his hand. "And it's my car. I decide who gets to ride in it."

"Do you even _read_ the paper?"

"Sure. And you should know that he had it coming."

"Whatever, it's your funeral. I do have one question, though. Why do you call her Mary if her real name is Rory?" Mark asked.

"You know, because she's naïve and inexperienced, like the Virgin Mary."

"She has to be around thirty years old. You don't still think that, do you?"

"Sure," Tristan said with a shrug. "That's the dream, right?"

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory was sitting at her desk in the newsroom a couple of hours later. She had just printed off her report and her editor, James West, was leaning against her desk, reading said report.

"This was all confirmed by the police?" he asked.

"Yes."

"The police from the _twenty-first_ precinct?"

"Yes."

"That's a surprise and a relief, if I ever heard one. I didn't think any of them would be willing to talk to you ever again."

"Yeah, I got lucky."

"I'll say. How did you find out where the victim worked?"

"Oh, the construction company he worked for was on the top floor of the apartment building. It was blocked off, but I snuck in with the detectives on the case," she answered nonchalantly.

"Snuck in?" he asked with raised brows. "With the _detectives_?"

"Yeah. And don't worry, they knew I was there."

"I don't know how you do it," he said, shaking his head in awe.

"Well, see, Jimmy, I'm the best. Did you forget?" she asked slyly.

He shook his head a second time. "I never will again. Send this on over for publishing. Good work, Gilmore."

"Thank you," she said with a smile. When he was gone, she looked over to the brunette woman sitting at the desk next to her. "Have you found anything useful about the victim, Marie?"

"I found _some_ information. I'm not sure how useful it is," the young woman answered.

"Well, sometimes it doesn't seem so at first. What did you find?"

"Steinberg is leaving a widow. They have two children. He has three siblings, and one living parent."

"What about the construction company, GHT?" Rory asked as she rolled her chair next to Marie's so she could see the computer screen.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Meanwhile, Detectives DuGrey and Stevenson were sitting at the kitchen table of Ann Steinberg, Daniel's widow. She had come home from work upon hearing about her husband. The two men had already searched the house for any clues into why someone would kill the man and were now making inquiries.

"Did your husband have any enemies that you can think of?" Mark asked gently.

"No, he got along with everyone he knew."

"There wasn't anyone who was upset with him about anything?" Tristan asked.

She thought about the question a moment. "Well, Frank Williams may hold a grudge," she answered.

Mark scribbled the name down in a notepad. "Who's that?"

"He's the head contractor at Williams, Inc. They were GHT's main competition."

"Can you describe their relationship some more?"

"Well, there are a lot of companies in lower Manhattan that do renovations or put up new buildings. They often take bids from GHT and their main competitor, Williams, Inc.," Ann explained. "Daniel was working on a big project. Williams may have been upset about missing out on that business."

"And you think he'd try to get rid of the competition?"

"I'm not sure. I really just don't know who would do this," she said, starting to cry.

Tristan reached over to a box of tissues and slid them across the table to the distraught woman before he and Mark stood up.

"Thank you, Mrs. Steinberg, we'll look into this. We're going to find the person who did this."

"Thank you," she said as she got up and walked them to the door.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

The following day, Rory walked into the twenty-first precinct and looked around at the desks. She found the one she was looking for and sauntered over to it. There were two desks that were pushed together and each had a chair at the end. Rory sat down in the chair next to the occupied desk.

Tristan was eating his lunch. He turned to her with an interested expression. "If you're here to report a crime, I already know what it is. I've heard nothing of you for years on end and now three times in two days. How many years _has_ it been?" he asked.

"Ten?" Rory guessed.

Tristan paused for a beat. "I know you didn't think I was very smart, but I definitely wasn't a nineteen year old junior."

"Okay, how about twelve to thirteen years?"

"That sounds better."

"I think I missed you at the ten year reunion."

"You missed me? That's sweet," he said with a smirk.

"I meant that I didn't _see_ you," she clarified.

"Institutions don't generally invite the people who didn't graduate from their establishment," Tristan reasoned.

"I guess that's why I didn't get to go to Stars Hollow High's reunion," Rory pondered.

"Probably. So, how may I help you today?"

"Do you have time?"

He checked his watch. "I have about fifteen minutes I can give you."

"I'm sure that's what you tell _all_ the girls," she leered.

He leaned in closer to her before he spoke. "Well sure, but if you want to meet up after work, I could spare a few more for _you_."

She shook her head in response. "Here's the thing, I cover crime for the _Daily News_—"

"You mentioned that yesterday. Could I interrupt and ask how that came about?"

"I guess—but this doesn't count against my time," she said, Tristan tilted his head to signal for her to go ahead. "After graduating from Yale, I traveled with Obama's campaign for an online magazine. When he was elected, I worked as a White House correspondent."

"Things are making sense so far," he commented.

"So, I reported on politics for a couple of years. Then the midterm election came around and, I don't know, I just got to thinking. I was listening to what politicians said in their campaigns and then seeing what they did once in office," Rory explained. "They'd just say whatever they had to in order to get elected. Then they'd pass legislation to protect the big organizations and special interest groups who financed their campaigns, rather than do anything they said they were going to do. Not many are willing to reach across the aisle, because that would upset their base and affect their chances in future elections. And then they'd all talk about the system being broken. Well, some congressmen have been saying it's been broken for twenty years! Who's going to fix it? I know I only wrote about politics for a few years, but it just seemed so. . ." She sighed in thought.

"Futile?" Tristan suggested.

"Yeah," Rory agreed. "I was kind of disillusioned with Washington. I wasn't sure if I could listen to the same complaints and bickering for years on end. I can go back to politics in the future, if I ever feel like it. But for the time being, I thought a change of pace would be good. New York always seemed like an exciting place to live. So, I got a job at the _Daily News_. Unfortunately, the only beat available was the crime beat. And let me tell you, it was _not_ my first choice. My mother and grandparents weren't crazy about it either. But I don't know, I kind of like the investigative journalism thing. I try to solve the puzzles at the same time as the police. It's actually kind of. . . "

"Fun?" Tristan supplied with a grin, finishing her sentence again.

"Yeah," she agreed. "Does that make me sick, if I get excited about a dead body?"

"If you're sick, then so am I," he answered.

"Maybe some day they'll find a cure for us. But enough about me. Why are you in _this_ position, Sherlock?"

"Would you like me in another?" he casually asked as he placed his hands behind his head and put his feet up on his desk, crossing them at his ankles. He gave a shrug before answering her question. "The robber thing didn't work out so well for me. So I thought I'd try the cop side of the equation."

Rory pursed her lips, not satisfied with his explanation. "Did you ever figure out why you got into so much trouble way back when?" she asked.

He shrugged again. "Felt like it."

"_Felt_ like it?"

"Yup."

"How often does that theory pan out when you're working on a case? Does the D.A. grant you warrants for arrest when you tell him that a suspect just _felt_ like killing someone?"

"We're not talking about my suspects, we're talking about me."

"Not really. You're being extremely evasive. People do things for reasons, Tristan. I had a reason when I—." She stopped herself midsentence.

He grinned at her again. "When you what?"

"Nothing."

"No, don't stop now. Things were about to get good. What did _you_ ever do?"

"Nothing," she said again.

"So if I run your name through the system, I won't find anything?"

"No, you won't. My record has been expunged for four years and I know my rights. I don't have to acknowledge anything," she said matter-of-factly.

Tristan just narrowed his eyes at her in a scrutinizing way. "A word of advice? Don't go into law enforcement. You have to admit to stuff, even if it's no longer on your record."

"Good to know."

"But you are aware that it's just the _public_ that can't see things that have been erased from your record, right? _I_ can see whatever I want."

Her face fell and Tristan grinned wider. "I . . . forgot."

"You forgot the police can still see it, or that that includes me?"

"Both."

"Hmm," he pondered, "I think looking you up would be too easy. It'll be more fun to guess what you did—_if_ it was anything."

"I'm _not_ that innocent," she insisted.

He raised a brow. "Do you want to do a little dance when you say that, Brittany?"

"No, that's not necessary. I'm not sure how this turned on me, we were talking about _you._"

"Oh, right. If you really want to know why I was so troubled during those formative years, do some digging."

"What?"

Tristan nodded his head. "Figure it out on your own, if you're so good at solving mysteries, as you claim."

"You want me to investigate _you_?" she asked doubtfully.

"You don't _have_ to. It's just the only way to find out about my secrets." Rory knit her brows in thought. "But we've strayed, why are you here?"

"Oh, yeah. I want to help you," she explained.

"Great, but we should go some place private," he said nonchalantly. "Unless you don't mind an audience."

"I want to help you solve the crime," she clarified without batting an eye.

"I actually have someone to help with that already. You met him. We've only been working together for a month, but I can tell that we make a pretty dynamic duo."

"Yes, but I'm another set of eyes and I can help research and think of theories. So you see, I'd be an asset. You'd have to fill me in on what you find, of course. Maybe even let me follow you around some more."

"_You're_ going to follow me around?"

"Yes—for the case."

"Of course. And I suppose you'll use all the information you receive in your reports?"

"I'll write _some_ things, yes."

"Then let's not pretend why you're really here."

Rory's face fell a bit—for the second time. "I just told you why I'm here."

"I know no one else is going to talk to you. You scared them off with your last big article. You're here to cultivate a source. It's okay to admit it. I do the same with informants."

"Well, yes, I _do_ need a new police source. The last one got into some trouble—and I reported it."

"You _do_ know that we're natural born enemies, right?" he asked her.

"You and I? Or law enforcement and the press?"

"Mostly our two separate entities. But I wouldn't rule out the other, as well."

"But that can change," she protested. "_We_ could change that."

"How? I was taught to not divulge too much information. Are you trying to get me into trouble? I can usually manage that on my own, thanks."

"No, and believe me, I respect what you do. I know when I shouldn't write something. I'm not here to compromise your investigation. I'm just here to tell it like it is. We're both serving the public, just in different ways. It'll be beneficial to everyone if we have a positive working relationship. We could all cohabitate peacefully."

"How?" Tristan asked before taking a drink from his bottle of water.

"If we act professional, have empathy for each other, and maintain open lines of communication. Basically, you should just satisfy my needs so I don't have to go elsewhere."

Tristan choked on his water and started to cough. "Sorry, but did you just say that I should satisfy your _needs_? You should have said that straight away. I know I can help you with _that_. Just name a time and a place," he said, eagerly grabbing a Post-It note and a pencil.

Rory ignored him again. "Just think about this, DuGrey," she said seriously, "I cover a lot of the homicides from this precinct. You might not want to admit it, but I _do_ have some power. The pen is mightier. How do you want to be portrayed to the public? They're going to believe whatever I write. It's just a fact."

"What are you going to do? Slant things and sensationalize the stories to discredit the department?"

"If I'm force to."

"And how would you be _forced_ to?" he asked, starting to get annoyed.

"If you hide information regarding a case—obviously. Or if you don't give me accurate details in a timely manner. I'm going to get a story, whether you cooperate or not. It's my job. So, are you going to make it easy or hard for me?"

"_You_ can—," he started before she held her hand up to stop him.

"If you finish that sentence the way I think you're going to, then I swear I'll demonstrate my self-defense moves on you."

"I'm sorry, but was that threat supposed to make me _not_ want to finish the sentence?"

"It's not a threat, it's a promise. And will you just answer the question?"

Tristan paused in thought for a moment and glanced around the precinct before looking back at her. He put his feet back down and set his hands down on the desk, lacing his fingers together. He leaned in closer to her, to be sure she was the only one who could hear. "Let me tell _you_ something, Gilmore," he said seriously. "I _don't_ have anything to hide. And, I'm _very_ good at what I do."

"With me, you could be the best," Rory said, leaning closer, as well.

Tristan shook his head, not impressed. "You might be able to wield your pen and intimidate the other guys around here, like some sort of piranha in a bowl of goldfish, but you don't frighten me." Rory raised her brows questioningly. "That's right. I'm about as scared of you as I am of MSG in canned soup." He leaned back in his chair and looked around again for a moment before exhaling heavily in acquiescence. "I'd have to run it by the captain if you're going to be hanging around."

"Oh . . . him. Are you sure you'd have to do that?"

He looked at her with a raised brow. "I'm _quite_ sure. Do you not get on with him?"

"He wasn't overly talkative when I interviewed him about the guy who had your position last," she answered, sheepishly.

"No one likes to know they're working alongside the bad guy. But thanks, by the way. It freed up the spot."

"Hey, _I_ wasn't the dirty cop. I just happened to be the one to report it. I'm really not anti-cop!" she insisted.

"Fair enough. But, you're saying I'll have to talk you up to prove your case?"

"Do you think you'd even be able to?" she asked, now doubtful of her prospects.

"I'm pretty good at arguing, when I need to be," he answered grimly. "If he gives the okay for you to be My Girl Friday—and I make no promises—I have two conditions."

"They are?"

"Don't get in my way."

"And the second?"

"The second one is important. If I say you can't write something—for whatever reason—then you can't write it."

"I told you I know when I shouldn't—," she started before he cut her off.

"If I say you can't write something, then you _can't_ write it," he sternly repeated, looking at her dead in the eye. "Are we clear?"

"Chrystal," she answered, not breaking eye contact.

"Oh, and I meant what I said yesterday— I'm not calling you by that silly made up name you gave yourself," he added.

"Well, you can't use my _real_ name. Not when we're around other people," she said, darting her eyes around, as though he was going to yell her name to the whole precinct.

"Calm down, Mary. I know the perfect compromise."

She glared at him halfheartedly. "Fine."

"Then I guess we have an accord. Do you want to kiss on it?" he asked with a smirk.

"A handshake will suffice," she said, putting her hand out. He took it and they shook. "So, you'll let me know when you get an answer from Captain Meyer?" she asked as she took a slip of paper from her pad and wrote two phone numbers on it.

"Sure thing," he answered as she handed the slip to him. He folded the paper before pocketing it.

"Well, I should get going. I've taken up enough of your time."

"Hey, maybe we could get together after work some time. I'll let you show me your self-defense moves," Tristan leered as Rory stood up.

"But then what will you show _me_?" she asked.

He gave her a deadpanned look. "My gun," he answered as though she should have known. She rolled her eyes and started to walk away. "I'll show you how to hold it!" he added.

She didn't turn back. She just shook her head with a half smile in response as she continued to walk out the precinct door.

NNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that afternoon, Rory exited the taxi cab and stood on a side walk on the fifty-seven hundred block of Tenth Avenue. She looked up at the row house in front of her. It was Daniel and Ann Steinberg's house. The house was brick with a small porch in the front. Rory walked up the stairs and rang the bell. She waited patiently for a couple of minutes before trying the bell again. A minute later the door opened a crack to reveal a young blonde woman. She looked to be around Rory's age, maybe a year or two younger. She was pretty, tall and skinny. Rory assumed this was their daughter.

"Hi, I'm a reporter for the _Daily News_, and I was wondering if Mrs. Steinberg would be willing to answer some questions about her husband," Rory said politely.

The woman shook her head, though. "Sorry, but Mom isn't ready to talk about it yet," the girl said sadly.

"I'm very sorry for your loss. If she ever feels up to talking, here's my card," Rory said, handing over her card.

The woman glanced at it briefly before pocketing it. "Okay."

"Thank you so much," Rory said before the door closed.

She turned and walked back down the stairs and looked at the other houses. She wondered if any of the neighbors could give a statement about the victim. She noticed that two doors down, the mailbox was labeled Steinberg. Rory pulled out her phone and made a call. When Marie answered, Rory asked, "Could you look up 5743 Tenth Avenue for me?"

"Sure," the other woman said. A minute later, she had an answer. "Roman and Sarah Steinberg."

"Daniel's brother and sister-in-law," Rory stated.

"Yup."

"Thanks, I'll see you when I get back."

"Okay, bye."

Rory hung up and walked down the sidewalk and up the stairs. She knocked and waited, but there was no answer. She knocked again, but no one ever came to the door. So, she went back down to the street to hail a cab. She'd have to go back to the newsroom for the day.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Around five thirty that evening, Rory entered her apartment and flipped on the lights in a hurry. She quickly pulled her cell phone out of her purse, as it had started to ring when she was unlocking the door.

"Hello?" she answered, a little out of breath before tossing her purse down on the dark green couch in her living room.

"Did I catch you in the middle of something?" Tristan asked on the other end. There was only a slight leer to his tone.

"No, I'm just getting home. Who is this?"

"I'm hurt. You don't know the voice of your favorite NYPD detective?"

"Give me a break, this is the first time I've ever heard you over the phone."

"Well, get used to hearing it. You have a new source."

"I _do_?" she drew out the word with a smile.

"Yes."

"You persuaded the captain? I'm impressed."

"Did you doubt my abilities?" he asked in a scandalized tone.

"No, I guess I just overestimated his displeasure with me."

"Oh no, you didn't. It took me a while, but I prevailed. I can do a thing right when I put my mind to it," he said dryly.

"All right then, did you guys find anything useful today?"

"All business and no pleasure," he lamented. "But yes. Ballistics says Steinberg was shot with a nine millimeter Smith and Wesson at close range. We had a suspect, but his alibi checked out."

"Who was it?" There was a pause. She could tell he was trying to decide how much he should reveal. "Come on, I won't write who it was."

"It was Frank Williams."

"The head contractor from Williams, Inc.?"

He paused again. "How do you know that?"

"Because I'm good. You're going to have to remember that, because I'm not going to keep telling you," she said strictly.

"Yes ma'am."

"So, he's off the hook then?"

"Yeah, he was preparing for a meeting in his office yesterday morning. His secretary vouched for him. He let us search his office, just to be on the safe side, but we didn't find a weapon—or anything else incriminating."

"Maybe he had someone else do it."

"He wouldn't have had a motive. Neither company was in any financial trouble. It was basically a friendly competition. They kept each other honest."

"All right, anything else?"

"We're having Steinberg's financials flagged. We should get the results tomorrow. Maybe he had a healthy insurance policy."

"You think his wife did it?"

"We _have_ to consider his family members."

"Yeah, I guess. Well, thanks. I'll let you know if I think of anything plausible."

"All right. Have a good evening, Rory."

"You too. Bye, Tristan."

"Bye."

Rory ended the call and saved Tristan's number to her contact list in her phone before setting it down on the coffee table.


	2. She Builds Quick Machines

**Title**: Contraband

**Chapter 2**: She Builds Quick Machines

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

_Don't let people drive you crazy when you know it's in walking distance. __–Author Unknown_

**She Builds Quick Machines**

Tristan was sitting at his desk Wednesday morning, filling out some paper work from a previous case while he waited for Mark to arrive. Suddenly, and without warning, the chair next to his desk was occupied. He looked up, brows still knit from concentrating on the work in front of him. His blue eyes met someone else's. Coincidentally, the other set of brows were knit, too.

"I don't like the insurance policy theory," Rory stated pensively.

"Good morning to you, too," he replied.

She waved her hand dismissively. "I don't have time for pleasantries right now. I just stopped in before I go to work."

"Okay. Do you have a better idea, then?"

"Well, maybe Daniel was cheating on his wife and she found out about it."

"Ah, so you haven't cleared the wife's name. You just thought of a different motive."

"Yes."

"What makes you so sure _he_ was the one having an affair?"

"Come on, you always hear about men straying."

"Do you hold _all_ men in such high regard?" Tristan asked wryly.

"No. Just some. It does happen you know. Maybe things were, I don't know . . . not working out with his wife."

"Maybe _she_ was the one with a lover on the side. Maybe the other guy was tired of sharing. Did you ever think of that?"

"Have you talked to her—his wife?" Tristan nodded in response. "How was she?"

"Sad about her husband dying."

"See?"

"That doesn't mean anything. Some people are good actors. But we'll look into it."

"Because you think I might be right?" she asked eagerly.

"No, because I'm going to enjoy it when you're wrong," he said in earnest. He picked up a steaming mug from his desk and took a drink. When he set the mug back down, he wore a sour expression. "I keep drinking this, thinking it's going to get better one day."

Rory shook her head. "It isn't going to. There's a place a block south of here, you should stop there for coffee on your way to work—unless you can talk someone into getting better coffee here."

"Look around. Do you think the New York Police Department really has any extra money for gourmet coffee?"

Rory did look around, it _was_ a bit drab. "I guess not," she agreed.

"Besides, I think I already used up my request card on you."

"But I'm worth it," she grinned.

"You have yet to prove that."

"You just wait. You have to think of this as an investment."

"So if I'm patient, I can expect a big return at a later date?"

"Yes."

"And that's supposed to be better?" he asked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

"Better than your wildest dreams."

"I've had some pretty wild dreams this week. Want to make a few of them come true?" he asked, sounding a little less flippant than usual.

"I don't want to know the details of your wet dreams."

"How did you know they were about you? I didn't even say they were. Wishful thinking?"

Rory shook her head in response. "So, do you guys have any leads you're pursuing today?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Yes," he answered without elaborating.

"They are?"

"We got the Steinberg's financial information. We're going to go ask Ann about something."

"Something in particular?"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"That's confidential for the time being."

She gave him an impatient look. "Well, good luck with that. She didn't feel like talking to _me_ yesterday."

Tristan slapped his badge on his desk before responding. "I don't need luck, I have that. She has to talk to me."

"How nice for you. Would you like to know what's nice for _me_?"

"I'd very much like to know," he said pleasantly.

"She might have to talk to you, but _I_ don't," Rory said as she stood up.

"No," he said with a small grin. "You only do that because you _want_ to."

"You wish."

"I think we both know I have better wishes than that."

"In that case, I hope your dreams are vivid. Because that's the only place your wishes are going to come true."

"You're very presumptuous today," he observed as she glanced at her watch. "What with all this assuming my wishes and dreams are about you."

"I have to go. I'm going to be late."

"No clever remark this time?"

"I'll have to get back to you," she called over her shoulder as she walked away.

Tristan continued to grin as he watched Rory walk out of the precinct. She met Mark on his way in. He glanced at Rory and gave Tristan a perplexed look as he walked over to his desk. Tristan just nodded casually in Mark's direction as greeting and looked back down at the paperwork that was still in front of him.

"What was she doing here?"

"We were just mulling over some theories."

"Theories about what?" Mark asked suspiciously.

"The Steinberg case."

"How much information does she have to go off of?"

"The same stuff we do."

"What, did you tell her what we found yesterday?"

"Just the details about the weapon. I'm her new police source," Tristan explained, looking up.

"What, you're just going to tell her everything, so she can turn around and get it printed in tomorrow's edition of the paper? That'll give our suspects enough time to get out of dodge before we can get to them," Mark said incredulously. "I'm all for having someone around who can knock you down a peg or two, but you're going to be in some deep shit with Captain Meyer."

"No, I'm not. He gave me the okay to talk to her. It took quite a bit of persuasion on my part. But I made some good points in favor of the pact."

"Such as?"

"For starters, if she's around, I can keep an eye on her—make sure she doesn't write things we aren't ready for the public to know. Which will give us the upper hand. If we share some details about the case with her, she'll be on our side and be more likely to write about us in a positive light. That way, the community will trust us and be more willing to call in with tips. Then, we can catch the bad guys faster. That _is_ why we're here, you know."

"I know why we're here. But did you provide the real reason for this delightful little alliance?"

"I just gave several reasons, pay attention."

"No, you gave several acceptable reasons, but I didn't hear the _real_ reason in all that."

"And what, pray tell, do you think _is_ the real reason?" Tristan asked in irritation, looking up at his partner again, glaring this time.

"It's become quite clear to me that you've been granted some sort of second chance."

"A second chance at what?" he asked with a definite edge in his voice.

"To accomplish whatever it is you failed to do fifteen years ago."

"Thirteen years," Tristan corrected before he could stop himself. "And I don't know what you're talking about. She drew the line in the sand a long time ago, and she still feels that strong aversion towards me. You would have seen that if you were paying any attention at all. I'm not stupid. Pursuing her would be a lot like Theodore Roosevelt at San Juan Hill. Unlike him, _I_ don't purposely run through gun fire. I'd get shot."

"Yeah, Bon Jovi has a song about _where_ you'd get shot," Stevenson retorted.

Tristan scowled at him before changing the subject. "Are you ready to go? We have things to do today."

"Yes."

"Good, let's get to it, then." Tristan stood up and put his jacket on without another word. They walked out of the precinct, both a little upset with the other.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that morning, Rory was sitting at her desk in the newsroom. She picked up her phone, dialed a number from her notes, and waited for someone to answer.

"Hello?" a woman said on the other end of the line.

"Hi, is this Sarah Steinberg?"

"Yes, it is."

"I'm Veronica More from the _Daily News_ and I'm working on a story about your brother-in-law, Daniel. I was wondering if you would be able to talk to me about it."

"Oh, okay," Sarah agreed.

"Was your husband close to his brother?"

"Of course, Dan was Roman's only brother. They have two sisters. It's such a shame, what happened. Roman is very upset, of course."

"Are your in-laws a close knit family? I noticed some of you live really close to each other."

"Yes, they are. The whole family always gets together to celebrate just about every holiday. Most of them haven't even strayed from their New York roots. Their father died years ago and they only have their mother now. And then they almost lost her earlier this year," she explained sympathetically.

"They did? Why?"

"She had a stroke, in February, I think it was."

"I'm so sorry to hear that. How has she been since then?" Rory asked in concern.

"Well, her short term memory isn't quite what it used to be, but she still lives on her own. Dan had thought she might need to live in a nursing home. He even tried to talk his other siblings into it. I guess maybe he thought they could overrule Betsy—that's their mother—if she disagreed."

"What happed with that? They didn't agree that she needed assisted living arrangements?"

"I suppose not."

"Then why would Daniel suggest it?"

"Well, I guess her mind was a bit more frail right after the stroke. He might have thought she couldn't make important decisions on her own any more—financial and whatnot."

"But she's okay?"

"Yes, she seems to be doing fairly well now."

"Did your mother-in-law know there was talk of moving her?"

"I'm not sure if it was ever discussed with her after the others rejected the idea."

"All right, thank you for your time, Mrs. Steinberg."

"You're welcome," the woman answered before they both hung up.

Rory turned to Marie. "Why would someone want to take over their parent's finances and put them into a nursing home if they're actually fine to live on their own?"

Marie thought about it for a moment. "Maybe if they wanted something—an heirloom—or something of that nature. And they didn't want to wait for the parent to . . . expire."

"If it's something in a will or a trust, I won't be able to find out what it was, unless I ask her directly. Her kids wouldn't even know if she didn't tell them," Rory pondered.

"Who?"

"Steinberg's mother, Betsy. Apparently he wanted to put her in a nursing home after she had a stroke. It might be far fetched, but I wonder. . . " She thought some more. Next to her, Marie was putting on her scarf and jacket, Rory looked over at her. "Where are you going?"

"Out. Hopefully to get an interview for an article I'm working on."

"I think I'll do the same. Want to share a cab?"

"Sure."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Meanwhile, the detectives on the case were once again sitting at Ann Steinberg's kitchen table. They were in the middle of listening to her tell an anecdote about her husband when Tristan's cell phone buzzed from inside his pocket.

"Excuse me," he said as he stood up and stepped into the next room. "DuGrey."

"Did you know that Daniel wanted to put his mother in a nursing home?"

"I'd ask who this is, but your lack of greeting gives you away," he said, the corners of his lips just barely curved.

"Like you didn't program my number in," she said impatiently. "Well, _did_ you?"

"Did I save your number, or know about his mom?"

"His mother. Stay in the game, DuGrey."

"Maybe I knew. Maybe I didn't. What about it?"

"He didn't think she was capable of making her own decisions—financially and perhaps legally speaking."

"Why not?"

"Because she had a stroke earlier this year. Hey, you _didn't_ know!" she exclaimed accusatorily.

"You don't know what I know. Where did you find all this out?"

"I don't reveal my sources."

"Well then, I don't know if it's reliable information."

"I'll just say that it was a family member."

"So, what's your point?"

"Well, maybe his mother found out what he wanted to do and she didn't like it."

Tristan paused. "What are you suggesting?" he asked flatly.

"I'm just saying, she's someone with a motive."

He snorted at the idea. "That'll look real good splashed on the front page of the paper," he sarcastically said in a low voice, so the two in the other room wouldn't hear. "I thought we were on the same side, here. I'm sure the NYPD will get a lot of sympathy from the public if they find out we hauled in some little old lady for killing her son."

"We _are_ on the same side. And it won't look bad if it turns out to be true. _You're_ the one who said you have to consider the family members."

"Do you even know if his mother knew what he wanted to do?" he asked in irritation.

"No."

"Then you're wasting my time."

"Maybe I'll keep my next idea to myself and you can go without my help," she retorted.

"Let's get something straight here, Mary. I've come this far without your help and I've been just fine. You're the one who needs _my_ help."

"Well, then help me out. What did you ask Ann today?"

"None of your business."

"A lot of good you are to me. Do you have _anything_ for me today?"

He thought for a half a beat. "Well yeah. But you're going to have to wait until I see you in person before I can _give_ to you," he answered in a harsh tone.

"And on _that_ note, I have to go," she said hotly, hanging up promptly.

Tristan walked back into the kitchen, where a bank statement was sitting on the table in front of Ann. Mark looked up at Tristan when he entered the room with a scowl on his face. Mark shot his partner a questioning look, but Tristan just gave a small shake of his head and sat down at the table.

"Can you tell us who this check was made out to?" Mark asked Ann, pointing to a line on the statement.

"It was a check to Daniel's mother, Betsy," she answered, looking at the date and the amount of the check.

"That's quite a chunk of change to hand over to his mother. What was it for?"

"Land."

"What land?"

"It's in upstate New York. It's been in his family for three generations—four now, since we bought it from his mother."

"Did you but it before or after Daniel wanted her to move into a nursing home?" Tristan asked.

Mark momentarily glanced at him with furrowed brows.

"It was after," Ann answered hesitantly. "He was just worried about her after she suffered from a stroke."

"His brother and sisters thought she'd be fine on her own, though?" Tristan continued.

"Yes. It was just a mild stroke and she _does_ seem to be doing all right now. She just uses a cane to help get around."

"What's on this land?" Mark asked.

"There's a small house. It's on a significant number of acres, around two hundred. There's a lake on it. The family has rented the house out at times—for people who want to get out of the city for a while, that sort of thing. Dan always kept up the maintenance and dealt with anyone who stayed there. He'd been doing so for years."

"And now you guys own it all?"

"Yes."

Mark looked at Tristan, who sighed despairingly at the thought of their next stop.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Fifteen minutes later, the two men were standing in front of a door not too far from the one they had recently exited. Tristan rang the bell and they waited. A few moments later the door opened to reveal a short white haired old woman.

"Good afternoon, ma'am," Tristan said politely. "I'm Detective DuGrey and this is Detective Stevenson. We're investigating the murder of your son, Daniel. Could we come in and ask you some questions?"

"Yes, yes, come on in. We were just sitting down to some coffee."

"We?" Mark asked as Betsy Steinberg stepped away so they could enter the house.

When they did, they found Rory sitting on the sofa in the front room. She narrowed her eyes at Tristan incredulously.

"This is cozy," he said in her ear as he casually sat down next to her and crossed his leg over his knee.

Mark sat down in a chair to their left.

"What happened to me being wrong?" she angrily whispered back.

"That's not why we're here."

"Then why?"

Tristan didn't answer as the elderly woman walked in from the kitchen, a cup of coffee in both hands. She handed one to each of the gentlemen and took a seat in a rocking chair.

"We were just having a little talk when you boys got here," she said nicely. "Such handsome young men, I have a granddaughter around your age."

Rory thought of the pretty blonde woman she had seen yesterday and suddenly felt a strange sense of animosity. She turned back to the old woman with a slight glower. There was an awkward pause.

"Don't mind us," Tristan said encouragingly. "Go on and ask your questions, Mary."

A perplexed look crossed Betsy's face.

"He meant Veronica. You'll have to excuse him, he suffers from Tourette's," Mark explained, glaring at the blonde.

Tristan just looked back at him, moving a brow a minuscule degree in lack of concern.

Rory didn't want to continue with the two men there, but really didn't have a choice. "Mrs. Steinberg, I understand you suffered from a stroke earlier this year. Is this true?"

"Yes, it is. It wasn't too serious, though. I'm just fine now," she explained.

Rory wondered if the elderly woman had always been so thin, though. "Did you know that Daniel thought you might not be able to make decisions after you suffered from the stroke?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" the old woman asked in response.

"Well, he asked your other children if they thought you might need to live in a nursing home. You know, to have someone take care of you," she explained gently. "You didn't know that?"

The woman looked like she was getting a bit upset at the idea. Mark rolled his eyes at Tristan and shook his head a little. So that's where _that _information had come from.

"Daniel wouldn't do that. He knows I'm fine. The doctor said I was perfectly capable of living on my own. Daniel knew that."

"So, you _didn't_ know?"

"You must have heard wrong. He wouldn't do that," she insisted.

Rory glanced at Tristan again, expecting to see him gloat triumphantly. But she couldn't read his expression. There wasn't even a hint of a smirk.

She turned her attention back to the woman. "There isn't anything in your will that he would have wanted is there? That he wouldn't have wanted to wait for?" she blurted out quickly.

Betsy frowned. "Wait for what? He _bought_ the land that's been in the family for over a hundred years. He was worried about me. My Social Security check isn't very much, so now I'm more financially secure."

Rory looked at Tristan sharply, to see if he was surprised by this information, but if he was, she couldn't tell. A glance at Mark didn't help either. If it was new to them, they weren't giving anything away.

"Did he buy it before or after you had a stroke?" she inquired.

"After."

Rory sat in thought a moment.

"Are you finished?" Tristan asked her abruptly.

She frowned at him. "No, I—," she started.

However, he had taken her arm and roughly dragged her up off the sofa. "I'll walk you out."

"But—"

He opened the front door and pushed her through it.

"Hey! I wasn't finished!"

"It's our turn," he answered firmly.

"You heard _my_ questions. Why can't I hear yours?" she asked vehemently.

"You can't sit in."

"But Monday—," she started, but he cut her off again.

"I'll tell you if we learn anything later," he hissed through gritted teeth.

And with that he shut the door in her face. Rory stood with her mouth gaping open indignantly for a moment before she walked down the stairs and sat down to wait.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A half an hour later, Tristan and Mark exited the house and started down the stairs.

Rory stood up when they reached the bottom of the steps. She glared at one of them. "I was _not_ finished with my interview when you rudely ushered me out."

"You were finished," he countered. "And I also want to take this time to point out that you were wrong. Are all Yalies this coldhearted, thinking a frail old lady would kill her son?"

"I'm not coldhearted. I just don't want to leave any stones unturned. Besides, anyone can carry a firearm. Someone issued _you_ with one. And what were you here for anyway? If you were so sure she didn't do it," Rory said, standing directly in front of Tristan with her hands on her hips.

"You heard what she said. Daniel and his wife bought the family property a few months ago. Oh, and you were wrong about the extramarital affair idea, too. I'm going to mark it down on my calendar when I get back to my desk."

"You _do_ that," she retorted.

"See, I look under all stones, too," he said, taking a step closer to her.

"Great."

"But thanks for the suggestion. We probably wouldn't have even thought of it without _you_," he said sardonically.

"Glad I could help," she snapped, matching his tone, her head tilted up to scowl up at him.

He stared back down at her in a tense moment.

"Are you going to kiss now?" Mark asked in a bored tone from a few feet away.

Tristan stared down at Rory a couple seconds longer before answering. "No," he replied as he looked over to his partner. "I wouldn't want anyone to break out into tears. I think it's my turn and I don't want to embarrass myself like that," he sneered while Rory glared at him some more.

"Well, I'm not sure what that's about. I could only guess," Mark said bleakly. "I'm hungry, I'm going home for lunch."

"All right," Tristan said before addressing Rory again, in a decidedly pleasanter tone. "He has to go walk his dog. It's a little one. The kind you could put in a purse."

"It is not. It's a large dog. The kind a man would have," Mark protested.

Rory nodded to reassure that she believed him.

"I'll see you back at the station."

"Sure, I'll be there in an hour," Tristan responded as Mark walked in the direction of the subway. He turned back to Rory. "_He doesn't like reporters_," he whispered loudly.

"I'd made that inference, actually."

"Don't take it personally. He just thinks the media is the enemy."

"I thought the criminals were the enemy."

"I think the exact order is terrorists, criminals, journalists," Tristan said, starting to grin as he ticked off the list on his fingers. "Have you eaten?"

She thought back to the lunch that was sitting in her desk back at the newsroom. "No."

"Then let's go," he said, taking her by the arm for a second time that day, though less aggressively than before, and steering her down the sidewalk.

"What makes you think I want to eat with you?" she asked. While he had dropped the venom in _his_ voice, she had not.

"Because you want to know what we talked about in there," he answered confidently, jerking a thumb back at the house they were leaving.

Rory sighed unhappily, knowing he spoke the truth.

They walked to a diner a few blocks away and sat down in a booth next to the window. As they looked over their menus, Tristan spoke up. "So, you didn't know about the land, then," he stated. It wasn't a question.

"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't."

He glanced up at her for a second before looking back down. "You didn't, I can tell. So don't bother lying, it doesn't suit you."

"What makes you so sure I didn't know? I thought there was _something_ in her will that Daniel wanted," she said after they had placed their orders.

He looked at her from across the table, it was a little like being X-rayed, but she didn't look away. He took a sip of his water before answering. "You need to work on your poker face," he told her. "Everyone in the room could tell when you learned something new." She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off before she could. "_Everyone_."

She sighed in frustration before continuing. "I was _going_ to ask Mrs. Steinberg if she knew how her other kids felt about her selling the land to Daniel."

"Why?" he asked in a neutral tone of voice.

"Well, usually a parent divides their assets evenly among their children. And she just sold it all to one of them."

"Maybe it _wasn't_ divided evenly. Maybe it was all going to go to Daniel, anyway."

"That wouldn't have been fair," Rory commented.

"Some parents don't love all their children equally."

"Then why would Daniel have bought it from her?"

He shrugged. "Maybe he didn't want anyone to know what he was doing there."

"You think he was doing something illegal?"

"Could be."

"Yeah," Rory agreed with a grin. "Maybe he was growing pot in the back forty."

"It's a good way to make money."

"Like enough money to buy all the land," she suggested. "Do you know what's on this property?"

"A house. And a lake. A getaway place, basically. Daniel had been taking care of it for a long time already."

"So, maybe not drugs."

"They don't really seem like hippies. But, again, we have to cover all our bases. Maybe it was a landing place for alien space craft," he suggested.

Rory smiled at the thought. "Move over Roswell," she joked as they started to eat their burgers and fries, which had arrived a minute before. "Can I be there when you ask the D.A. for a search warrant on those grounds?"

"No, that suggestion stays here. It was purely for your amusement."

"Really? Because I think the headline would read nicely. Police investigate possible UFO landing site in connection to murder case. That sounds good. I'd like to get that byline."

"Actually, we're going to question the two kids next. Ann's alibi checks out, so they'd be the next benefactors."

Rory wrote this down in her notepad, which was sitting on the table. When she was finished, Tristan reached over and tore the top sheet off. He crumpled it up and put it in his jacket pocket. She glared at him.

"That was off the record," he said evenly.

"I'm not sure if that works when you say it retroactively." He just looked her in the eye with his jaw clenched, not amused. "Okay, it works retroactively."

"That's what I thought."

"Did you learn anything else about this land deal?"

Tristan nodded. "We asked if she got a fair deal. She said she did, but we're going to get the land's value assessed to find out—we know how much he paid."

"You think he undercut her?"

"It's possible. She's old. She might not know the going rate of real estate these days."

"Maybe he was going to sell it to developers. Or actually, he was a contractor. He could have built a whole subdivision and sold the houses to make a big profit. His siblings might not have gone for the idea if he waited until their mother died."

"It wouldn't be out of the question."

"Did you _really_ not ask if her children would have inherited the land all together?"

His mouth twitched a little. "We did. It _was_ originally going to all of them," he answered.

"See? Maybe one—or all of them—held a grudge. If it turns out that he didn't pay full price, he got off easy. His siblings probably wouldn't have let him rip them off, had they gotten their share after their mother died. They could have named their price."

"True."

"And if they knew he wanted to sell it to someone else. _Or_ to keep it all in the family. Their price could have been as high as they wanted. Now, they might not get anything—especially if their mother _does _end up moving to a nursing home one day."

"Yeah, but killing him wouldn't do _them_ any good, since it all goes to the two kids after Ann dies."

"And that's why they're your next suspects?" she asked as she made a note and quickly put the notepad in her purse. She eyed him defiantly, but he hadn't made a move.

"Yup," he continued. "They're the ones who would have had something to gain by his dying. I'm glad that makes sense to someone in your condition."

"What condition?"

"The condition of being a Yale graduate."

"It's the best school in the country—quite possibly the world."

"Actually, Harvard is. It was the first in America, too."

"First doesn't mean best," Rory argued.

He wiggled his brows at her. "I'm glad you think that. Because while the first may have been disappointing, the next could be amazing," he said with a smirk.

"The next what?" she asked flatly.

"Just think about it," he said as the waitress brought them each a cup of coffee. He took a sip and set it down, dissatisfied. "I'm oh or two today, what is the _deal_? If we ever come back here, let's not get coffee."

"Good idea," Rory agreed, putting her cup down, as well.

Tristan signaled for the waitress to bring the bill and he went up to the cashier to pay.

Rory narrowed her eyes at him when he returned and refused to take the money she tried to hand him. "I better not hear any rumors down at the precinct that we're dating just because you bought me lunch."

"No worries. I keep my private life private."

"I could have paid for my half, you know," she continued.

"You also could just say thank you, like a normal person," he said grimly. "But if it makes you feel better, you can owe me."

"Somehow, that _doesn't_ make me feel better," she said as they headed for the door.

"Come on, I'll take you back to work. You'll get to sit in the front seat this time."

"Oh boy."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

The next morning, Tristan was in a small room, sitting across the table from a young man a few years older than himself.

"Did you and your father get along, Jason?" Tristan asked.

"Sure."

"You never argued about anything?"

"No, not really."

"Were you aware that your parents were leaving all of their assets to you and your sister after they die?"

The man shrugged. "They don't have anyone else to leave everything to."

"You know that your parents recently bought a significant amount of land from your grandmother, right?"

"Yeah, so?"

"So, you knew you two were going to inherit all of the land after your parents die?"

Jason furrowed his brows. "I wasn't sure. I mean, I figured it would pass on to me and Amy. But I didn't know whether or not my parents changed their will yet."

"Do you talk with your sister much?"

The man shrugged again. "What is much? We keep in touch, she's my sister. We have family dinners sometimes. But we're not Siamese twins or anything."

"So, were you in on it together?"

"In on what?"

"Killing your father."

"What? _No_! We didn't do it!" Jason said angrily.

Tristan tried a different angle. "You weren't working very far from where your father was Monday morning. Did you slip over to see him?"

"No."

Tristan continued. "Did you argue about anything when you saw him? I'd understand. I know it's hard to get along with fathers sometimes. Hell, it can be difficult _all_ the time."

"I already said we didn't argue. Weren't you listening?" Jason asked impatiently. "We got along just fine. I wasn't there and I _didn't_ kill my dad."

"You would have had a lot to gain by it."

"Not until after my mom dies."

"Is she next on your list?"

"What? I don't have a list! You want to know who had a problem with my dad?"

Tristan tilted his head and raised a brow, encouraging the other man to continue.

"My uncle, Roman. He's been pissy ever since Mom and Dad bought the stupid land from Grandma. So, why don't you go talk to _him_? And you can check with my work. I was there at eight o'clock on Monday morning, just like I am every morning. And I didn't leave until I heard about my dad."

Tristan was about to say something else, when Mark stuck his head in and motioned for Tristan to join him. "His alibi checks out. He was at work."

"Great," Tristan replied. "Did you get his ex-wife on the phone?"

"Yeah. She said they split on good terms. They just made better friends. Whatever that means. She said Jason and his dad got along fine."

"That's what he said."

"I heard."

"Well, let's bring in the daughter, then."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

That afternoon, Rory was sitting at her desk, finishing up a phone call. She sat the phone back in the cradle and looked over to her co-worker.

"Well, Daniel's sister, Becky, definitely didn't kill him. She moved to New Hampshire a couple of years ago. She recently eloped and was meeting with a wedding planner Monday morning," Rory said, making a note if it on her notepad.

"Why would she be meeting with a wedding planner if she already got married?"

"She's planning on having a reception here in the city next week one night for her family to celebrate with her."

"Still? I mean, under the circumstances?"

"That's kind of what I thought, but sometimes it's a good idea to celebrate happy things in times like this."

"I guess."

"Anyway, she thought Daniel wanting to put their mother in a nursing home and buying up their inheritance was pretty crummy. But other than that, she was pretty neutral about it. She doesn't live here anymore. And it wasn't like she needed money or anything."

"Well, that's not helpful. I found some information on the other sister for you," Marie said.

"What is it?"

"Her name is Dana. She and her husband own and run a business in upper Manhattan. I couldn't get a hold of her for you, though. No answer."

"I'll try later."

Just then, James strolled over to Rory's desk and peered over her shoulder. "What are you working on, Gilmore?"

"I was just looking into Steinberg's siblings."

"Are the police investigating them as suspects?"

"No. At least, not yet."

"Do you know who they _are_ looking into?"

"Yes. But I only know off the record."

"Then I suggest you find out—_on_ the record—if anyone has been charged before you go down your own path."

"You'll be eating your words when I end up being right."

"We'll burn that bridge when we get there," he said before walking away.

Rory picked her phone up and dialed the number of the twenty-first precinct and then punched in an extension. When there was no answer, she tried a cell phone number instead. However, no one answered it, either. "My source isn't picking up," Rory called over to James, who was a few desks down.

"Then go check with the prosecutor's office," he called back.

She sighed in response. "Fine."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Twenty minutes later, Tristan was placing the paperwork he had been working on the day before into a file folder, and then put the folder in a basket with other paperwork at the corner of his desk. He was clearing off his workspace, as though organizing his physical surroundings might help organize the thoughts swimming around in his head.

He wasn't bothering with being quiet about his task as he shuffled things around in agitation. So when he suddenly stopped and sat still—though his chore remained unfinished—Mark noticed. The dark haired man frowned when he glanced across the two desks to peer at Tristan. The pen that the blonde had been clicking fell to his desk and he rested his cheek on his fist.

Tristan stared across the precinct in the direction of the door. Something in his eyes looked a little—sad, if Mark had to pick an emotion. He glanced over his shoulder at the door to see what Tristan was gazing at and he got his answer. Rory was talking to the prosecuting attorney just inside the precinct. She was smiling politely at the tall red haired man as they talked. For the first time this week, she had her hair down, it flowed a couple inches past her shoulders in loose waves.

Mark turned back to his partner, who continued to watch Rory intently. "Cheer up, emo kid. She'll probably be over to talk to you next," he said.

"Hmm?" Tristan answered absentmindedly, having not heard what the other man had said.

A moment later, Mark assumed the reporter was making her way over, as Tristan had gone back to rearranging his desk. Rory plopped down in the chair next to him.

"Oh hi," Tristan greeted casually, as thought he hadn't been staring at her a minute earlier.

"Hey."

"Couldn't stay away?" he said with a smirk.

"I'm actually here on my editor's orders. Well, I was after _you_ didn't pick up your phone."

"And if you always come right on over in person when I don't, then you shouldn't expect me to answer very often."

Across from Tristan, Mark shook his head down at his desk dismally. He decided to get up rather than stay here and listen. "I'm going to go have a little chat with Miss Steinberg," he told Tristan.

"Okay," he answered before Rory continued talking.

"I had to check with the A.D.A. if anyone was charged for the murder yet," she explained.

"And what did he say?" Tristan asked with interest.

"No charges as of this afternoon, and I quote, 'Detectives DuGrey and Stevenson have failed to bring forth sufficient evidence to be granted a warrant for arrest for any of their suspects.'"

"That's nice," Tristan commented pleasantly.

"Not really. I got the impression he's not your biggest fan."

"Oh, did you bond over that fact?"

"No. I got what I needed and let him get back to work. He seems very important. Or he wants people to think that, anyway."

"Yeah. Lawyers," Tristan said, shaking his head. "They basically suck as human beings. And that particular lawyer is on a bit of a power trip. He gets to ride us until we give him what he needs to build his case."

"So, no luck today, then?"

He shook his head grimly and sighed. "Nope, not really. In fact, I need to get out of here. I've been cooped up all day. Walk with me," he said suddenly as he stood up and put on his black jacket.

When they had exited the building, they started walking around the block that the station was on. Tristan shoved his hands in his pants pockets and squinted in the sunlight as his dark blue and silver tie whipped around in the wind. He gave her a sidelong glance. "It's getting kind of cold out for all those skirts you keep wearing," he commented as he nodded at her dark grey pencil skirt that she was wearing with a maroon shirt. Her black suit jacket was the only thing warm about her outfit.

"Oh, yeah, it _is_ getting chilly out. But I've been doing this for years now. I know what to wear to get more information from my sources, particularly the males. And the guys working here are no different," she explained, jerking her head toward the building next to them.

"Ah, so you're dressing skimpy for me, I'm flattered."

"I wouldn't call it skimpy, I still look professional. But if it makes you feel any better, I do feel shallow about it."

"I think it makes us the shallow ones," he reasoned, "and you just strategic."

"Thanks, that sounds better," she said with a smile.

"No problem," he said as they walked. He sighed in frustration before continuing. "There wasn't anything illegal going down at the land. We drove up there yesterday. And Daniel's son has an alibi. He says he didn't even know he and his sister were going to inherit everything. So, _his_ motive and opportunity went out the window."

"Did you search his residence?"

"Yup. Nothing."

"I found in the paper that he was married for a while earlier this year."

"Yeah. His divorce was final around the time his grandmother had her stroke. He and his ex-wife were married for like five minutes."

"Months actually, but you were close."

"Yeah, I was estimating."

"That sounds like my parents."

Tristan looked over at her. "Did the pressures of raising you as a baby prove to be too much for them?"

"No," she said with her brows furrowed in amusement. "I was twenty-two when they got married."

"Oh, so they couldn't take the pressures of you getting into all that legal trouble, then."

"That incident happened before they got married. I didn't have anything to do with them."

"Ah. When did you graduate from Yale?"

"Two thousand and seven. In the spring, why?"

"Just checking."

"Why? When did you graduate from Harvard?"

"Same time. I was just making sure you didn't spend a year in jail."

"Oh, no, just a few hours."

"So it was just a misdemeanor that you committed, then."

"Actually," she said with furrowed brows, "it was a felony. I had to do three hundred hours of community service."

He grinned at her. "You couldn't get a lawyer to get you out of it?"

"My grandpa hired one, actually. But the judge was tired of privileged kids like us getting off easy after behaving badly."

"Don't group me in with you Yale criminals," he said, scandalized. "I didn't have any legal problems in college. In a manner of speaking. And what makes you think I'm still so privileged?"

"Aren't you?"

"Am I?" he turned the question on her and raised his brows.

They'd reached a hotdog vendor on the sidewalk and Tristan put up two fingers to order for them. Before he could open his wallet, Rory handed a few dollar bills over to the vendor. Tristan glanced at her grimly, but put his wallet back without arguing. They took their hotdogs and continued down the sidewalk.

"Did you vandalize school property?"

"No. I love Yale, why would I mess it up?"

"Okay. Did you pay a professor for your grades?"

She looked at him, truly scandalized. "_No_. If anything, I did the opposite."

"How?"

"I asked a professor if I earned a grade that I felt was too high—people said he was really tough."

"Who _does_ that?" he asked incredulously, but with a grin. "Take your grade and go."

"_I_ do that. I want to earn my grades."

He stopped suddenly, so she stopped, too. "Did you have a 'special relationship' with an instructor?"

"_No_."

"I think you did. That denial was too . . . quick and adamant. That's what it was, wasn't it?"

"No," she insisted again. "And I don't think you would go to jail for that. If so, then _Paris_ would have been arrested."

Tristan looked pained as they continued to walk. "Please don't tell me any more."

"Tell you? I _saw_!"

"Stop! I don't to hear any more!"

"He was old, too."

"How old?" Tristan didn't want to know, but couldn't help from asking.

"He was a classmate of my grandfather."

"Is that who she's marrying? That's not what I thought you meant when you said you all went to Yale together."

"God no. The professor died—over summer break."

Tristan cringed and then laughed a little. "That Paris," he said with a grin and a shake of his head.

"She's something, all right." They continued in silence for a couple of minutes before Rory spoke again. "So maybe the ex did it."

"What?"

"Maybe Jason's ex-wife killed Daniel."

"Why?"

"Maybe she wanted to get back together, and thought it would be nice to have a little nest egg to sit on."

"They parted on good terms and all, but they don't really talk much any more. We checked his phone records. I think you're just grasping at straws now."

"It's possible," she said as they reached the front entrance of the police station. She felt like they got back pretty quick. Tristan stopped at the steps and watched some cars pass by on the street. Rory continued with her theory. "Maybe she was planning to seduce him and win him back," she suggested with a grin.

He smiled at her in response. "I am clearly a member of the weaker-minded sex. We're so easily conquered."

"I wouldn't say weak-_minded_."

Tristan looked up at the building and sighed heavily. "I guess it's my turn to question Steinberg's daughter."

Rory remembered the blonde woman. There was that curious feeling again. She gave herself a mental shake and thought of something else to say before she had to leave. "So, are you the good cop or the bad cop?"

"Hmm?" he asked as he turned back to her, with a half smile and a brow cocked.

"When you interrogate suspects, are you the good cop or the bad cop?" she asked again.

"You'll have to get yourself arrested again to find that out."

"I'd have to get picked up for murder for you to question me," she argued. "I don't want to know _that_ badly."

"Then I guess you'll never know."

"You're no fun."

"That's your opinion. In fact, I can think of a place we could have some fun," he drawled.

She raised a brow. "Atlantic City?"

"I was thinking somewhere here in Manhattan."

She shook her head dismally. "You were so close. We made it all the way around the block before you had to go and ruin it."

"You don't even know what fun activity I was going to suggest," he protested. "I think you're the one with your mind in the gutter."

"Fine, what were you going to propose?" she asked with her arms crossed.

"No, it's too late now," he said haughtily, before sobering. "I have to get back to work."

"Yeah, so do I," she said, but she stopped him again before he got away. "Hey, do you still have that page from my notepad that you stole yesterday?"

He instinctively put his left hand in his jacket pocket and shrugged. "I don't know. How bad do you want it?" he asked.

She considered him a second before she stepped up to him, a lot closer than necessary. She tilted her head up to his ear and slid her right hand into his pocket, clasping his hand, which was loosely holding the paper he had put there the day before. "Oh, I want it _real_ bad," she said quietly in his ear, more seductively than the situation strictly called for.

It caused his heart to beat faster, but other than that he masked his surprise well. Rory took the paper and started to remove her hand from his pocket, but he grabbed her hand fast and leaned down to her ear.

"Well played," he whispered back, his breath was warm on her neck. He released her hand—and the paper. "Bye, Mary." He said casually before walking up the steps without another word.

Rory watched him for a moment. "See you later. . . Harvard," she said faintly before turning to the street to hail a cab.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that evening, Rory was in her living room, considering her dinner options, when she decided to go across the hall. She stepped out of her apartment and knocked on the door opposite her own. It swung open after just a few seconds.

"Howdy, neighbor," Lucy said with a friendly smile. Rory stepped into the apartment and said hello to Olivia, who was sitting on the couch, looking somewhat frazzled, with papers covering the coffee table.

"Hi Rory," Olivia greeted.

"How's the art show coming along?"

"Genius," Lucy answered for her friend. "She's crazy busy with all the artists that want to bring their work next week."

"It's not _that_ many," Olivia argued.

"Don't listen to her. She's going to have a full house. It's why she's stressing out so much about it now."

"Well, I saw your new displays in the windows downstairs when I came in tonight," Rory said, "and it looks great."

"Thanks, I worked on it all afternoon," Olivia said. "Oh, and I got your grandparents' RSVP in the mail today."

"Yeah, my grandma said they'd be here for the show. You know how they like to check in on their investment from time to time."

"Yes, I remember. I hope the show lives up to their expectations."

"I'm sure it will. They liked the last couple they came to."

"I know. But I hope they're not just trying to be nice."

"Oh, they wouldn't do that," Rory reassured. "Well, they would, but you would be able to tell—it would be a compliment that's really an insult—and always delivered with a smile."

"Great."

"Don't worry about it. I'll invite them up for drinks before they look around downstairs, if you want."

"I wouldn't mind that, actually," Olivia said.

"Then it's done. Oh, and I talked to the editor of the Arts section of the paper and she's going to send over a reporter."

"Please tell me it's you."

"It's me."

"Thank God," Olivia said, relieved. "I hope you don't mind taking a short break from the dead bodies."

"I don't mind at all."

"So," Lucy said, addressing Rory, "speaking of dead bodies, did you find any good ones this week?"

"There was one on Monday. The police are still trying to find the person who did it."

"Are you spying on them?"

"Who, the police? No."

"Oh, okay. I was just wondering. I thought you might be banned from all the precincts in Manhattan," Lucy said.

"No. But it did help that I ran into a detective who knows that I'm Rory Gilmore."

"Good timing. It was right when you needed someone. Lucky."

"It was more of a cause and effect thing than luck. But yeah, it did work out nicely," Rory said. "Hey, I was thinking about ordering something for supper, you want in?"

"What were you getting?" Olivia asked.

"Food."

"We _love_ food," Lucy said. "Definitely count us in."


	3. You Got No Right

**Title**: Contraband

**Chapter ****3**: You Got No Right

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

_The jealous are troublesome to others, but a torment to themselves. __–William Penn [__Some Fruits of Solitude]_

**You Got No Right**

Rory walked into the precinct on Friday morning and glanced around. No one was there yet, it was still fairly early. Well, one person was there. And by the looks of things, he was _still_ there, not already there. She walked over to Tristan's desk and stopped beside it. A desk light was on, shining down on his head, which was resting on his arms. Rory stuck a finger out and poked him in the shoulder. Nothing happened, so she poked him again, harder.

Tristan jerked his head up and blinked rapidly. "Hmm?" he mumbled, looking around, confused.

"Good morning, how are you?" she asked pleasantly as she sat down.

He rubbed his eyes and looked up at her. "Is it morning?"

"Well, the sun is up and it doesn't usually do that at night. So I'm going to go with yes."

"What time is it?" he asked, squinting at his watch.

"It's about seven fifteen. Did you sleep here?"

"Uh, maybe," he answered guiltily, his voice was lower than usual, from sleep. "Haven't you ever fallen asleep at _your_ desk before?"

"A few times," she admitted. "I fell asleep at the kitchen table once, too. I never did get to take that Shakespeare test," she lamented, thinking back nostalgically.

Tristan thought for a moment and smiled slowly. "But if I'm remembering the same Shakespeare test, then your meltdown was definitely worth seeing."

Rory thought about the spectacle, too. "I may have yelled at some people."

"Not may, did."

"Weren't you clearing this off when I came by yesterday?" she asked as she looked at all the papers and files scattered on his desk. There were also a number of Post-It notes sticking to things.

"Yes."

"What happened to that?"

"I came back up here and it got messy again."

"I see. So, what were you doing before you fell asleep?"

"I was just up all night, trying figure out how you could possibly have landed on the pseudonym Veronica More. Then I rested my eyes for a while. And the next thing I knew, I was getting poked by the very woman in question."

"Okay, hopefully that's not really why you fell asleep here. Because you could have just asked."

"All right, how did you get the name?"

"I already said, my mom thought it up. Apparently, when you spell _my_ nickname incorrectly, you get a nickname for Veronica. And the last name is just the second half of Gilmore—not much mystery to that one."

"How many names does one person need? You don't look like a Veronica, by the way."

"I don't think so either. But it was better than some of her other suggestions."

"Why? What were they?"

"Oh, they all sounded like names someone could have if they worked in the porn industry, actually." Tristan grinned at the thought. "Now, why were you really here so late?"

"I was working on a case. I was just trying to connect some of the dots."

"The Steinberg case?" she asked eagerly.

"No. I don't want to hurt your feelings, or anything, but that case isn't the center of my world. And I needed a break from it. We have a couple other cases we're working on. Steinberg is just sucking up a lot of time and brain power at the moment."

"Maybe they're connected," she suggested hopefully.

"They aren't."

"But how do you know?"

"Because life isn't a movie or a television show. Besides, this one was a convenience store robbery gone badly. And, as you know, the Steinberg murder didn't involve theft," he explained as he took off his tie and opened his bottom desk drawer.

Rory watched as he pulled a different tie out of the drawer and put it on to replace the other. He dropped the first tie into the drawer and shut it. He looked back at her. She had a brow raised.

"What?"

"You've done this before," she observed.

"Once or twice."

"Mm-hmm. Anyway, you were explaining how the murders weren't related. Was there a security camera at the convenience store?"

"Yeah, it wasn't very good quality, though. And the witness accounts of the shooter's appearance don't match up. That's the problem with witnesses. They aren't lying, but their memories aren't great. They can't remember details. For example, what did my tie look like? The one I had on before?"

Rory stared at him for a moment. "I want to say it had stripes."

He smirked at her. "And there you have it."

"You had it on yesterday, I saw it. Shoot, that's going to bother me now," she said before she suddenly remembered why she'd come. "I brought you something." She handed over a cup.

"Look at that."

She sat a white pastry bag down on the desk as well. "I have doughnuts, too."

"No thanks."

"Why not? They're really good," she said in a sing-song voice. "And breakfast is the most important meal of the day, even if you went to Harvard."

"I'm not sure doughnuts qualify as a balanced breakfast. Plus, I am not a stereotype. If I eat too many of those, I won't be able to keep up on the foot chases."

"Do those happen a lot?"

"Occasionally. You never know when you're going to get into a good foot chase." He took a sip of his coffee and nodded his head. "This is much better. I think I'll be able to get through the morning with _it_."

"I told you."

"Yup, you did," he said before running his tongue over his teeth. He made a face and put a hand to his mouth. He smelled his breath and made a sour expression. "I need to brush my teeth." He opened the bottom drawer again and pulled out a travel toothbrush and toothpaste.

"What else do you have in there?" Rory asked, sitting up to try to get a look.

He put some paste on the brush and stood up, closing the drawer. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Obviously, since I asked."

He didn't answer, but started to walk towards the restroom. "I'll be back."

Rory ate a doughnut while she waited for Tristan to return. When he did, he sat back down with a sigh and put the toothbrush back in the drawer.

"That's a nice seven o'clock shadow you have going on there," she commented. He looked her in the eye, expressionless, and opened the drawer again. "No really, it looks good, don't worry about it," she insisted with a smile. She even meant it, it wasn't a bad look for him.

Just then, some of the other detectives started to arrive. Some of them saw Rory sitting with Tristan and took in the fact that he had on the same shirt he had worn the day before, as well as a scruffy face. A few of them shot smirks in his direction and snickered, but he just shook his head warningly in response.

"What?" Rory asked.

"What?" he answered, looking back at her.

"Why are you shaking your head?"

"No reason."

Mark walked into the precinct then and went to his desk. He looked from Rory to his partner and gave him annoyed look. Tristan shook his head again.

"There, you're doing it again!" Rory exclaimed.

"I'm not doing anything," he argued, holding his hands up in protest.

"If you insist," she said, glancing at her watch. She could probably stay five more minutes.

Tristan squinted down at the document in front of him and brought it closer to his face. He shook his head impatiently before he opened the bottom desk drawer—again—and took out a case. He opened it and put on a pair of black framed glasses before he looked back down at the paper on his desk. Something inside Rory flopped, oddly. It may have been her stomach. Or her spleen. What was the deal today? She wondered. She recovered, though, before he looked back up at her.

"Really?" she asked with a raised brow.

"What?"

"Four eyes?"

"Clever, did you think that up all by yourself?"

"No. I never knew you wore glasses."

"I'm fairly certain there are plenty of things you don't know about me. And I don't wear them very much. Only sometimes. Like for reading. When I remember to put them on. _Sometimes_," he stressed. "This print is really small," he added, indicating the paper in his hand.

"So, every hour of every day," she said ironically.

"Funny. As we age, some things just don't work they way they used to," he explained.

Rory snorted and unsuccessfully tried to stifle a giggle.

"What now?"

"Nothing. It's just that, you know they make pills for that these days, right?" she asked with a smile.

"Oh, clap clap clap. I could put these away, if they're distracting you," he offered, putting a hand to his glasses.

"No, it's all right. They actually make you _look_ smart."

"Well, at least I can look it."

She glanced at her watch again before looking back at him. "I should go, I have to meet with my editor at eight," she said as she stood and picked up her coffee. She threw away the doughnut bag before turning to go. "See you later, Harvard."

"Bye, Mary," he answered. He stood up and went to his file cabinet.

Mark was about to say something when Rory hurried back. She went up to Tristan and grabbed his arm. "It was blue," she said with a smile, looking up at him.

He looked at her, questioningly. "What was blue?"

"The tie you were wearing before. It _was_ striped. Silver and blue. Dark blue, but not quite as dark as your eyes," she said excitedly. "Right?"

He paused a moment. "Yeah. Right," he answered quietly. He looked down at his arm, where her hand still was.

She took it away hastily and cleared her throat. "Well, I should get going," she said before she walked away and out the door.

Mark was looking at Tristan. "How much did you tell her this time?"

"I didn't tell her anything today," he answered and frowned. "She didn't really ask, either."

"Then why was she here so early?"

Tristan was still looking at the door. "Oh, uh, I don't know. She brought me coffee."

Mark arched a brow skeptically. "She came to see you and to give you coffee?"

"Yeah, why?" Tristan asked, looking over at the other man.

"Nothing. I just want to let you know that I feel a lot smarter than you right now. And it feels good."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that day, Rory was sitting in Ann Steinberg's living room. Rory had finally persuaded the woman into talking with her. They had been discussing Daniel for a little over an hour, so Rory had enough to write an article about the deceased. Now she was interested in solving the crime again.

"How do you feel about your children being questioned about your husband's murder?" she asked Ann carefully.

The woman shook her head. "Jason and Amy wouldn't have killed their father. There's just no way."

"What can you tell me about them?"

"Jason is very responsible. He's never gotten into any trouble."

"He didn't need money for anything?"

"Oh no. Before he got married, he lived with us. So, he had quite a bit of money saved up. He's not extravagant."

"What about Amy?"

"Well, she does like to have fun on the weekends."

"Oh?"

"Yes, in fact, there are a couple of bars that she's no longer allowed to enter," Ann admitted.

"Really?"

"Yes. But she just likes to have fun. She's really harmless."

Rory had her doubts. "Did she have any money problems?"

"Well, she does have a little bit of credit card debt. Nothing too significant, though."

"Did she ever ask you for money?"

"No. And her father didn't even know about it. She intended to pay it off on her own."

"You're sure?"

"Positive. I know my kids, they wouldn't do this," Ann stated firmly.

Rory thought it would be a good idea to leave at this point. She didn't want to offend Ann the way she had offended her mother-in law a couple days ago. "Thank you, Mrs. Steinberg. I think I have enough for an article about your husband. Can I call you if I have any more questions?"

"Yes, of course. And thank you for writing about him. I'll walk you to the door."

When Rory had walked down the steps to the side walk, she was going to hail a cab to go to her next destination. However, she saw a shiny black Camaro parked on the street a couple of houses down. So instead, she meandered around until Detectives DuGrey and Stevenson walked out of Roman and Sarah's house.

"Fancy seeing you here, Mary," Tristan commented casually.

"What were you doing there?" she inquired.

"Just talking. You know, police stuff."

Mark was glad that his partner had the decency to not blab everything to his reporter friend while he was still around.

"I thought you were considering Daniel's children as suspects."

"That was yesterday, now we're going in a different direction."

"Oh?" Rory asked with an arched brow. She pointedly looked up at the house they had exited and then back at Tristan. "Where'd you get an idea like that?"

"It was Stevenson's idea," he answered, nodding his head in Mark's direction.

"No, it wasn't," the other man argued.

"All right, so a little birdie told us."

"Oh really?" she asked suspiciously.

"Yes really. And you can wipe the smirk off your face, because it wasn't you."

"Who then?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Was it Amy?" she asked. "You talked to her yesterday."

"I said don't worry about it."

"Fine," Rory retorted. She turned back to the street to catch a cab. She should have just gone for it earlier, since waiting ended up being fruitless.

"Where are you going now?" Tristan asked with kind interest.

"To talk to someone."

"Who?"

"Don't worry about it."

"You're spirited today," he observed.

"What can I say? You bring it out in me."

"I wonder what else I can bring out of you."

"That doesn't even make any sense," Mark complained dryly.

"Just go with it."

"Can we go? We need to find out if he has an alibi," Mark asked.

"Yeah, let's go. Maybe we'll run into each other again, Mary."

"I can't wait," she replied flatly as she got into a cab.

Rory's next stop was Dana, Daniel's sister. She was sure there was a story with the siblings. She had already talked with Becky and Roman's wife, plus it appeared the police were looking into him. So she'd drop in on the other sister. She rode the taxi to upper Manhattan and it stopped to drop her off a tall office building.

There were many businesses and offices in the building. She went in and took a look at the list of names indicating what floor people worked on. She heard the door open and close behind her, but she didn't look up. When she'd found the floor she was looking for, she turned to walk to the elevator, but stopped short.

"Are you _following_ me?" she incredulously asked Tristan and Mark, who were waiting for the elevator.

They turned to look at her. "We actually have better things to do with our time than follow you around. Like work. Those criminals won't turn themselves in. At least, not usually," Tristan answered.

"I thought you were going to find out Roman's alibi."

"We are. What are _you_ doing here?"

"I want to talk to their sister, Dana. She works here."

"Cool, good idea," he commented.

"Why are you here?" she asked slowly and impatiently, as though Tristan was a small child.

"You just said why we were here and I confirmed it. You need to work on your listening skills, Doll Face." Just then, the elevator doors opened and they all walked into it. "What floor?" he asked nicely.

"Sixth," she answered.

He pressed the number and the doors shut. "Oh, us too. What a coincidence."

"What? Why?"

Tristan put a hand on Marks shoulder and grinned at him. "We've one upped her," he said enthusiastically.

"It's about damn time," Stevenson answered.

"How?" Rory demanded.

"She doesn't like to be out of the loop," the dark haired man observed.

"No, see, Mary here is special," Tristan explained. Rory looked offended by the remark. "What? No one's ever told you that before?"

"They have. That's just the first time it's ever sounded like it would get me a seat on the short bus."

Tristan just grinned in response. When the elevator stopped and opened its doors, all three of them got off.

Rory shot the blonde detective a scowl. "Why are you here?" she demanded in a loud whisper at Tristan's right.

"You'll see," he answered. They approached the receptionist for the floor and Rory waited for the other two to speak first, however, Tristan glanced at her. "Go ahead. Ladies first."

"Could I speak with Dana Johnson?" Rory asked the receptionist.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, I'm a reporter for the New York_ Daily News_. I'd like to speak with her about her brother."

"I'm sorry, but she's in a meeting at the moment," the woman answered.

The two men held up their badges at the same time. "Ask her if we could have a moment," Mark told the woman, who hesitated before standing up.

"Of course. Right this way, officers," she said, gesturing for them to follow her.

"She's coming too," Tristan said, jerking his head towards Rory, who looked at him in surprise before going along. "You're welcome," he said with a smirk as they walked down the hall.

The secretary stopped at an office and had them wait until she returned with Dana. The woman entered her office and took a seat behind her desk.

"Mrs. Johnson, was your brother, Roman, at work Monday morning?" Mark asked.

"Yes, he was," she answered matter-of-factly.

Rory looked at Tristan sharply and glared at him.

"I see you didn't know he works for his sister," he whispered in her ear without taking his eyes from the older woman.

"I knew," she hissed back.

"No, you didn't. And what did I tell you about lying?" he asked quietly before addressing Dana. "Where is Roman's office? We'd like to have a word with him."

"It's upstairs. His secretary will take you to his office," she answered.

"Thanks," Tristan said as the two started to leave. "See you later," he whispered to Rory with a grin.

"You aren't with them?" Dana asked when Rory hadn't followed them out.

"No. I'm actually a reporter for the _Daily News_."

"Oh, so you're writing about my brother, then?"

"Yes."

"We're sure getting a lot of attention these days," she commented dryly.

"Yes, I'm sorry about your loss, but I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about your family."

"All right, I have some time now that I'm out of that meeting."

"Is it true that you didn't think your mother should move to a nursing home after she had a stroke earlier this year?"

The woman seemed surprised at Rory's knowledge of their family drama. "That's true. She was okay to live on her own. Daniel obviously wanted to get his hands on that damn land before we all inherited it."

"That's kind of what I thought might be the case. How do you feel about him buying the land?"

"I don't think he had the right, we're all in the family, not just him. If he'd wanted it that badly, we'd have sold him our shares after Mom died. He's always been her favorite, though."

"Really?"

"Yes. He and Roman are the favorites. They all live right close together, near Mommy," she explained bitterly.

"They're both favorites of you mother?"

"Sure. They used to be pretty close, Daniel and Roman. But Roman hasn't been speaking to Mom or Daniel ever since they made that little deal."

"He hasn't?"

"Nope. Although, truth be told, I haven't been talking to Mom, either."

"You're upset about the deal too, then?" Dana shrugged.

"We had this meeting—just us brothers and sisters—about what happened with the land. My sister, Becky, thought Mom should be there. But I disagreed. Becky couldn't keep her big mouth shut though, and told Mom what I said. So we're sitting there at this meeting, and in the middle of it, Mom calls my cell phone and tells me I need to mind my own business."

"What was discussed at this meeting?"

"Daniel and Ann told us they'd been leasing to own the land for years. It was the first _we'd_ ever heard about it. Although, Amy always used to say it was their land—or her dad's."

"She did?"

"Yeah."

"Dana, did Daniel tell you all what they paid?"

"Nope."

"Why do you think they left that out?"

"My guess is that they didn't pay full price. Otherwise, what does he have to hide?"

"That does seem shady. So I guess you're upset with your sister, then, too," Rory deduced. "For telling your mom what you said?"

"Yeah, you could say that. I haven't gone out of my way to talk to her."

"Are you and your family going to attend her wedding reception next week Tuesday?"

Dana shrugged again. "I haven't decided yet."

"All right. Oh, where were you Monday morning?"

"Here at work. The receptionist can tell you. You know, maybe you should be a cop," she commented.

"Oh, no. I could never keep up on the foot chases."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Meanwhile, the detectives were upstairs. They stopped first at Roman's secretary's desk. Tristan held up his badge as he addressed the woman.

"How early do you get to work every morning?"

"Around seven thirty. It's a little early, but I answer the phones before the offices open."

"I see. And when does Roman Steinberg get to work?"

"Well, work officially starts at nine, but he usually arrives around eight."

"What about Monday morning?" Mark asked.

"Oh, well. . . Monday?" she hesitated.

"Yes, Monday."

"He actually got here around quarter till nine that morning."

"Forty-five minutes later than usual?"

"Yes."

"Did he say why he was late?"

"No."

"Could you show us to his office?"

The woman led them down a hall and stopped at the door that was requested. The two men went in and showed their badges to the man sitting behind his desk.

"Mr. Steinberg, can you tell us where you were Monday morning between eight and eight forty-five?" Mark asked. "Your secretary said you weren't at work yet."

"I don't have to be here until nine," he answered.

"But you usually arrive earlier. So where were you?"

The man hesitated. "I can't say."

"Mr. Steinberg, you're aware that your brother, Daniel, was killed Monday morning, correct?" Tristan asked.

"Yes, of course I know."

"And you're telling us that you weren't at work—even though you usually are—and you can't tell us why?"

"Yes."

"Well, how about this? We're going to arrest you, and maybe you'll be able to tell us where you were before we get down to the station," Tristan said as he moved to cuff the man and read him his Miranda rights.

Mark got on his phone to call for a police car to pick up their suspect. They led the man down the hall and into the elevator. When it opened on the floor below, Rory was standing on the other side of the door, waiting for a ride to the bottom floor.

"For the love of God," Mark complained, looking up at the ceiling.

"You can take the next one," Tristan said as Rory's mouth dropped open at the sight of the three men—one obviously in cuffs. "_Mary_. _Poker face_," he reprimanded sternly.

She sobered and started to lift her notepad.

Tristan saw and reached for it as the doors were closing. "I'll just hold on to this."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"Hey, that's mine!" Rory exclaimed as she watched the elevator doors close in front of her. She looked over to the door leading to the stairs and decided she'd rather take action rather than stand around and wait for the elevator to get back up to the sixth floor. When she got to the bottom floor and exited the building, she was just in time to see the police car pull off from the curb and Tristan's Camaro pull off behind it.

She quickly hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address to the twenty-first precinct. When it got there, she jumped out and hurried up the steps. She rode the elevator to the third floor and hurried down the hall. She peered through the window in the door rather than barge in. Tristan wasn't at his desk. She glanced around the room and saw him standing with the captain. Both had their arms crossed as they concentrated at a window that looked into an interrogation room.

Rory assumed they were watching Stevenson question Roman Steinberg. Tristan must have felt her eyes on him, because he glanced over and caught her eye. Without uncrossing his arms, he held up his index finger to indicate to Rory to wait a minute. So she stood and tried to appear nonchalant until Tristan walked over to his desk five minutes later. She took the opportunity to go sit in the chair next to his desk.

"You have something that belongs to me."

"I do? What's that?"

"My notebook. You took it not too long ago. Why do you keep taking my things?" she asked in exasperation.

"Do you have something else you'd like to give me?" he asked suggestively.

"Why do I sometimes get the feeling that you want something that's been gone for years?" she asked him in impatient frustration.

"What's that? I don't think I heard that last part."

"You heard me just fine."

"No, I have selective hearing."

"What you always wanted is long gone," she stated clearly.

"There it is again. I see your mouth moving, but nothing is coming out," he said as he took the small notebook out of his jacket pocket and handed it over, looking her dead in the eye. "And for the record, you never figured out what I wanted." He stared at her a beat too long, making her momentarily uncomfortable.

However, she didn't yield. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Why did you arrest Roman?"

"Because he was mad about the land thing and he doesn't have an alibi for Monday morning."

"None at all?"

Tristan shook his head. "Nope. And now he's not talking."

"Did he lawyer up?"

"No. I guess he knows he'll waive his Miranda rights once he starts talking."

"What made you consider him as a suspect?"

"I told you, someone told us to talk to him."

"Was it Amy? You talked to her yesterday. What was her alibi? Was she at work Monday morning?"

"She was still asleep at the time of the crime and she got to work at nine thirty."

"That's over an hour after her father was killed. How do you know she didn't do it?" Rory demanded. "Was someone with her?"

"No. But the security camera in her building shows her leaving at nine ten. That wouldn't give her enough time to go kill her dad and get to work on time."

"I thought security cameras weren't always good quality," she countered.

"This one was."

"Well, did you search her apartment?"

"Yes, we know how to do our job, thanks. There wasn't a murder weapon anywhere."

"A gun can be thrown in the river."

"Well, there wasn't any gunshot residue on the clothes she had on Monday. Ballistics checked it out yesterday. She couldn't have done it. You have traveled in this city during rush hour, haven't you? It's logistically impossible for her to have done it in that amount of time."

"Maybe she snuck out a fire escape earlier, where no security cameras were," Rory persisted. She wasn't even sure why she was still talking.

Mark had come back about the time Rory had started asking about Amy. He was now sitting at his desk, trying not to listen. But it was difficult. Rory was really getting worked up over this.

"Okay, but without any direct evidence, that case isn't very strong," Tristan argued, getting annoyed. "You were the first one to suggest the possibility of Daniel's siblings holding a grudge. So it looks like you might be right. What's the problem?"

"Amy had a motive. Her mother told me she had some credit card debt, so she could have used the money."

"Her brother didn't know the will had been changed and neither did she. And we're in America. Who doesn't have a little credit card debt?"

"_I_ don't'."

"Well, neither do I. But it doesn't change the fact that when the recession hit, the patricide rate didn't increase. A little debt wasn't too much to get worried about. Is it _nice_ up there?" he inquired. They were starting to make a scene.

"Up where?"

"Up on your high horse. Where you don't have to deal with the burden of _proof_."

"I think there's plenty proof. She was asleep? No one can even confirm her story with _that_ excuse. And she had a motive."

"That's a weak motive."

"And a weak alibi."

"It's also just circumstantial evidence. The prosecutor won't be able to build much of a case from that. And he'll sure as hell let us know."

"What if she was ugly?" Rory spat. She almost instantly wished she hadn't said it, but it was out there now.

"What? What does that have to do with anything?"

"She's pretty, don't you think?"

He shrugged, looking confused. "I guess. So?"

"So, maybe you're convinced of her innocence because she's nice to _look_ at."

"What?" he asked incredulously.

"I just think you cleared her name pretty quickly. I mean, she's probably just your type."

"And what do you think my _type_ is?" He was moving beyond annoyed, now getting infuriated.

"You know, more generously endowed in physical appearance than mental capacity."

"Judgmental much?"

"Like you haven't made a snap judgment before," she accused angrily.

"When?"

"Oh, I don't know, I think you judged _me_ the second you saw me."

"And I was right, too. So?"

"So, now if Little Miss Steinberg is off the hook, are you going to date her?"

"_What_?" he asked angrily. He was starting to see red. "I don't need this job to get dates. I happen to be a professional. Dating a suspect would be a _pretty_ big conflict of interest, don't you think? What's the _matter_ with you?"

"Nothing, I'm just making sure you're doing your job," she retorted.

"_Excuse _me, but I have a boss to tell me what to do and a prosecuting attorney not far behind. _You_ are the last person I have to answer to. I'd get it through my pretty little head, if I were you. Because if you have a problem with the way I do things, then maybe you need to find a new source. Or better yet, you can just call up the department spokesperson andthen you won't have to deal with me at all. Stay in your lane, I _know_ how to drive."

Mark was still watching from his desk. He was wondering just what it would take to get them both to shut up. He was getting tired of their bickering. Something seemed a lot more serious about it this time, too. And for some strange reason, Rory was playing the role of perpetrator today. He had an idea what their problem was. And a way they could solve it. Not that he'd be the one to suggest it.

Even though Rory and Tristan were a couple of the smartest people in the room, they were being incredibly stupid at the moment. Mark suddenly got an idea. It would definitely shut them up, but he was fairly certain he'd pay for it. He might be able to kill a few birds with one stone, though. It was worth a shot, he thought before he spoke up.

"Hey, do want to go to dinner with me?" he asked Rory.

She and Tristan both whipped their heads in his direction, caught off guard. "_What_?" they both snapped. It was a good thing Mark was looking at Rory expectantly. Because if looks could kill, then Tristan would have been responsible for Mark's sudden death.

"Dinner," he repeated. "Do you want to have some with me . . . tomorrow night? I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. I'd like to make a fresh start."

Rory glanced at Tristan briefly, who was still shooting his partner with a murderous look. "Sure," she answered. "I'd like that," she added in what sounded like a defiant tone.

"Great, tomorrow then, it's a date," Mark said before getting up and walking away. He'd leave them alone to work through their awkward moment.

Tristan snorted. "That must be a fucking record," he muttered down at his desk.

"What?" Rory demanded.

He looked back up at her with a scowl. "I said _that_ must be a record. Five days in his acquaintance and you already got a date."

She thought briefly before responding. "No, I think the record was an offer to 'study' after about _five minutes_ of being in the same room as me," she sneered. Tristan just scoffed and shook his head in disgust. "I'm leaving," Rory said angrily before getting up and stalking away.

"Finally," he retorted just as furiously.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory was in bed the next morning, coming out of a haze of sleep as her phone rang from her nightstand.

"Hello?" she answered groggily.

"Gilmore, has Steinberg's brother been charged with murder?" James asked on the other end without greeting.

"I don't know, he wasn't talking to the police after they took him into custody yesterday," she answered, starting to wake up a bit more.

"Well, you need to find out. Today. I want an update in tomorrow's paper."

"Fine," she answered before hanging up the phone.

A glance outside told her it was raining. She groaned a little, wanting to stay in her warm, dry bed longer. But she grudgingly got up and went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. While it brewed, she went back to her bedroom to get dressed.

After she was ready and had poured herself a cup of coffee, she sat on her couch in the living room and stared at her phone, which she had placed on the coffee table, no desire to pick it up. Partly out of anger, partly out of pride. She knew she was wrong in her accusations from the day before, but didn't want to admit to anything out loud.

She'd rather ask the A.D.A.—and would probably need to anyway, to get official confirmation. However, after dialing the attorney's office, his secretary explained how the prosecutor in question was making the rounds downstairs and would be out of his office for a large portion of the day.

"Great," Rory said unenthusiastically after she had hung up the phone. If there was any chance in talking to him, she'd have to go down there in person.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A half an hour later, Rory was in the hallway that led to the detective's squad of the twenty-first precinct. She didn't even want to walk in. She didn't exactly feel welcome. She glanced through the window and couldn't control her eyes as they flashed over to Tristan and Mark's workspace. The A.D.A. was speaking with them. Tristan was sitting on the edge of his desk with his arms crossed and didn't look happy to be talking to the lawyer. Rory watched as he ran a hand through his short hair impatiently and said something to the man. His body language looked a bit hostile.

If it weren't for the well-fitted jeans he was wearing with a dark dress shirt that wasn't tucked in, she might think he'd stayed another night. He rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling and before he looked back at the prosecutor, he caught Rory's eye. She felt her cheeks warm from being caught watching him. He only looked at her long enough for her to see his eyes harden and turn icy. She hastily glanced away and decided to sit on a bench near the door.

Ten minutes later, Detectives DuGrey and Stevenson walked out of the precinct with their jackets on, moving towards the elevator. Tristan didn't give any indication that he'd seen Rory sitting there. Mark glanced at her and then at Tristan uncomfortably. Seeing his partner's cold demeanor, he decided he should at least acknowledge Rory.

"Hey, what's up?" he asked.

"Oh, I just have to find out if Roman's been charged with anything," she answered timidly. She glimpsed at Tristan, but he was standing in front of the elevator, staring at the doors with his arms crossed.

"Oh, well—," Mark started, but got cut off.

"She has to get it confirmed with Jacobs," Tristan said tonelessly, not addressing Rory directly and still staring at the elevator doors. "Let's not give him any other reason to be pissed at us today." The elevator doors opened then, and he stepped in.

"Uh, bye," Mark said awkwardly before joining his partner in the elevator.

Rory watched as they disappeared and wondered why she cared that Tristan hadn't even looked at her.

NNNNNNNNNNNNN

"You doing all right there, Sad Clown?" Mark asked Tristan as the elevator descended.

"I'm fantastic," he answered evenly, arms still crossed confrontationally.

"Really? Because I've had the sneaking suspicion all morning that you'd like nothing better than to beat me with the business end of a night stick."

"Well, I guess you're lucky I don't carry a night stick."

"No, just a gun," Mark said pleasantly. "This wouldn't have anything to do with dinner tonight, would it?"

"What dinner?" Tristan asked as they stepped off the elevator and exited the building, walking quickly in the direction of his car. Their heads were bent down to avoid getting wet.

"The dinner I'm supposed to have with your reporter friend this evening," Mark answered.

"I wouldn't call us friends."

"I wouldn't either. Mostly because you'd like to be more. Though I'm not exactly sure what."

"I already told you, I'm not going down that path. Not again. You know what they say, once bitten, twice shy."

"That's a nice saying. I've never considered you shy, though," Mark commented casually. "Listen, I don't know what happened a long time ago. And I don't really care to know, but it was a long time ago. Things could be different this time. Don't despair, Romeo."

Tristan scowled at him. "Don't call me that. Don't you know they died in the end?" he asked scornfully as they got in his car.

"I only went to lowly public schools all my life, but I was aware of that, actually."

"Well, she used to go to public school, too. So you'll have something to talk about during your romantic date."

"You need to calm the hell down. It's just one dinner. It's not that critical. I'll even talk you up, if you want."

"Don't do me any favors," Tristan answered. "I should be congratulating you. You found the one girl who has no interest in me what-so-ever."

"Do you even know why I asked her out in the first place?" Mark asked in mild frustration.

"Sure, she's smart and pretty and fun to be around. When she isn't driving _me_ crazy."

"Yeah," Mark said, shaking his head at Tristan's ignorance. "How are you good at this job?" he muttered incredulously.

"You actually _can_ do me one favor," Tristan said as he started the car. "Make sure I'm not around at the end of the movie."

"I don't think we're going to a movie tonight. What are you talking about?"

"You know, the end of the movie where the good guy gets the girl and it fades to black. I already had a front row seat to that one and don't feel like seeing it again."

"Are you seeing someone about all this pent up aggression you're carrying around?" Mark asked. If Tristan hadn't been so livid, it might be amusing. "Perhaps a shrink or someone? Maybe you need to look at some ink blots, or something."

"You know what? I don't want to talk about this any more. You're a grown-ass man. You can do whatever the hell you want, with whomever you want. And the same goes for her."

"We're both grown-ass men? I asked her out under the impression that she was a woman."

"You're hilarious," Tristan sneered derisively.

"No really, is that like half-man, half-mule? Kind of like a centaur?"

"Shut up," Tristan said firmly. And he meant it.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that morning, Rory was concentrating on her computer screen in the newsroom. She was typing up her report when Marie sat down in the next desk. The woman put a brown paper bag down in front of her and opened it, peeking at its contents. Rory glanced down at the time in the corner of her computer screen and saw that it was lunch time. She had not planned on staying for lunch, but she was here, so she may as well take a short break. She switched windows on the screen so she could read a ten year old newspaper article from the _Hartford Currant._

Marie looked over. "You don't have to work through lunch, you know."

"I know, I'm not."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Mmm . . . research," Rory answered vaguely.

Marie rolled her chair over to look at Rory's screen. "Who's that?" she asked in sincere interest, nodding at the picture included with the article.

"Just someone involved in the case."

"A suspect?"

"No. He's one of the detectives, my new source. Or he _was_, at least. He was transferred to the twenty-first precinct recently."

"That explains why he's been talking to you, he doesn't know any better. You aren't doing another one of _those_ articles are you? You shouldn't be so suspicious of everyone."

"I'm not."

"Good. You know, _I'd_ let him arrest me."

"Well, he's homicide. So I'm going to have to ask that you not kill me just to meet him. I'd like to believe it wouldn't be worth it," Rory said flatly.

"Of course I wouldn't. Besides, I need you around to introduce him to me."

"Why?" she asked suspiciously.

"Well, does he still look like that?"

"Basically. His hair is shorter, though. I guess you could say he's less boyish now. And he's been to Harvard since this picture."

"Then he's brainy, too."

"Yeah, he's . . . pretty smart, I guess. I've never considered him brainy, though. He isn't a nerd or anything."

"Well, yeah, he'd never pass as a cast member of _The Big Bang Theory_. So, I think it's obvious why I'd want you to introduce us."

Rory experienced a peculiar sense of unease at the idea, even if she _was_ mad at him. "You don't want to date Tristan."

"Why not?"

"Well, give me a dictionary and I'll highlight a few adjectives to describe him."

"Attractive? Beautiful?"

"More like arrogant, bothersome, conceited, delusional, egotistical—," Rory listed alphabetically, getting worked up.

"You can tell all that after just a week?"

"We went to high school together for a little while. And no, we didn't date."

"Your loss. I still think his looks should make up for any character flaws."

"You've never met him."

"He isn't _that _bad, is he?"

"He's easy on the eyes, sure. But he's as impossible as ever."

"You've had more time to think about this. I see he is clearly your nemesis."

"I wouldn't say that. I assume he's grown up _some_ since high school. It's difficult to tell, he's usually too busy making inappropriate remarks."

"So, it all works out. Since you're not interested, you should have no problem giving me his number."

"No," Rory said firmly, not liking the idea. Not that she cared. At all.

"Why not? _You're_ not going to use it for anything fun."

"Just no."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory was sitting at home a couple hours later. It was still fairly early, not time to get ready for her date yet. She was flipping through the channels on the television mindlessly when her phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hey Rory, it's me," Paris said on the other end.

"Hi, what's up?"

"Have you seen Tristan more this week?"

"Unfortunately. Why?"

"I was wondering if you have his e-mail address."

"Why?"

"Well, we went to school for a long time before he got sent away. I thought it might be time we bury the hatchet. If I feel that he's sufficiently grown up, I _might_ even invite him to the wedding."

Rory snorted. "Good luck with that. If you do invite him, make sure he's far away from me. Unless you want World War III to happen in the middle of your reception."

"I'd rather that not happen, actually. But I don't think that will be a problem, seeing as how you'll be at the head table, next to me. What's up?"

"Oh, nothing."

"It doesn't sound like nothing. What's going on?"

"I just . . . accused him of . . . something yesterday. He's not very happy about it."

"What was it?"

"I implied that he let off a pretty suspect so he could date her."

"Ah. Is that all?"

"Yeah, I think so. I mean, I'm going out with his partner tonight. But why would he care about that?"

"Gee, I don't know," Paris said ironically. "Maybe he's jealous."

"He is not. He's just mad about yesterday. You should have seen him today. I had to stop by the precinct and he didn't even speak to me. He barely looked at me."

"And how did that make you feel?" Paris asked, like she was Dr. Phil.

"Great. I mean, what do I care? I _don't_ care," Rory insisted.

"All right then. It sounds like you have everything under control there. So, can I get that address?"

"Oh, yeah. It's tdugrey at nyc dot gov."

"Thanks. Sorry, but I have to go. My shift is going to start soon."

"You're welcome. I'll talk to you later."

"Bye."

Rory hung up and put the phone back down on the coffee table. She stared at the phone for a while. She felt an overwhelming desire to cancel the dinner date. But she'd accepted and it would be rude to cancel just a few hours before it was supposed to take place.

She really didn't care if Tristan didn't want to speak to her. It wasn't the first time in her life he'd ignored her. And she never cared before. He only talked in double entendres and euphemisms to annoy her, anyway. So what did it really matter? So what if he was attractive . . . okay, really attractive? Who cares if he was smart—and could even look it at times? She remembered the glasses he put on the day before. He definitely did look smart then. Something flopped again. What was _with_ that?

Why _had_ she accused him of wanting to date that girl? She remembered the hostile feeling she had toward that old woman at the mere mention of having a granddaughter their age. Is _that_ why she accused him of letting the blonde woman off easy? Because that just made her sound . . . jealous. Jealous of what? _Tristan_? That would mean she might. . .

"No," Rory said out loud, in rejection of the unfinished thought. She shook her head back and forth vehemently. "_No_! No, no, no, _no_. No?" The last 'no' was more of a horrified question, rather than statement. "I'm an investigative journalist, for Pete's sake," she said, reprimanding herself. "I can think about this rationally."

She picked up a notebook from the coffee table, along with a pen. She drew a line down the middle and another along the top. She started to write something at the top of the paper, but her hand was shaking—just a little. She threw the notebook and pen down on the coffee table, as though she was repelled by it.

"Oh my God. This isn't happening," she groaned, flopping across the couch and burying her head in a pillow. Her cell phone started to ring again from the coffee table. "Hello?" she answered miserably.

"What's wrong with _you_?" Lorelai asked on the other end.

"Nothing, I've just had a rough—and weird—couple of days," Rory answered.

"Well, there isn't much normalcy in seeing dead bodies on a regular basis."

"True. How are you?"

"Good, but I'm bored."

"Ah, so that's why you called. For the free entertainment."

"Maybe. Luke and your brother are out in the wilderness, camping with the Boy Scouts," Lorelai explained.

"That doesn't sound remotely fun. But it _is_ raining here," Rory said glumly. "Although, I guess it's good to know you still need me."

"I'm glad you feel that way. So, what are you doing?"

"Well, I should be getting ready to go out."

"To the club?"

"No. I have a date."

"You sound really excited about it," Lorelai said sardonically.

"Oh, yeah," Rory said and then sighed. "I don't know. I just didn't think this guy liked me very much. I don't really talk to him—at all. And he isn't a fan of journalists." Why _did_ he ask her to dinner? She wondered to herself.

"Hmm. I can't really help you. Unless, of course, he was just intimidated by you. And because of your infinite greatness, he had to look past the reporter thing," Lorelai suggested.

"Maybe," Rory answered doubtfully. "It doesn't matter. It's just one dinner. I can tell him Monday that we should just be friends."

"Well, let him down easy. You're probably very hard to get over."

"Yeah, I'll be gentle," she said grimly.

"But if he ends up outside your window holding up a stereo over his head, take pictures for me."

"Sure thing. I should probably go. I need to get ready. Sorry if I didn't entertain you tonight."

"That's okay. Try to have fun on your date. Don't dress too provocatively if he isn't getting any."

"Thanks, that's good advice."

"That's what a mother is for."

"Bye, Mom."

"Bye."

Rory hung up and walked back to her bedroom to change her clothes for the evening.


	4. Doin' Fine

**Title**: Contraband

**Chapter ****4**: Doin' Fine

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

**A/N**: Thanks for the reviews, I love them all. I'm also really glad you like the new story so much.

_When you realize you've made a mistake, make amends immediately. It's easier to eat crow while it's still warm. __–Dan Heist_

**Doin' Fine**

On Monday morning, Rory was just outside the twenty-first precinct. Again. She had a cup of coffee in each hand and was trying to work up the nerve to walk in. She'd been standing there for five minutes. She'd paced back and forth briefly, but then some police personnel had arrived and she had to stop. No need to look crazy.

She had her story all ready—her excuse for her irrational outburst from Friday, it was probably even believable. She was working on her poker face. She couldn't have Tristan suspicious of the real cause of her lapse in sanity. Because that's what it was, temporary insanity. She'd swear to it on a Bible.

Finally, she took a deep breath and swallowed her pride before she walked through the door and over to Tristan's desk, and the now familiar chair next to it. She took a seat and looked at him timidly. He was reading a newspaper and didn't look away from it. He was concentrating on the article he was reading and then turned the page, giving no indication whether or not he knew he wasn't alone.

Another five minutes passed in silence, which was more time for Rory to feel anxious. After a couple more minutes, he roughly laid the paper down on his desk and rubbed his face with his hands. He took a deep breath and exhaled heavily before he finally spoke.

"What?" he asked impatiently, still not looking over at Rory.

"I brought a peace offering," she answered sheepishly.

"For what?" His voice was still toneless.

"For my conduct Friday. I was out of line," she said, staring down at the floor in shame. "You know how to do your job and don't need me looking over your shoulder."

"You're right, I don't," he agreed sullenly. He glanced over at her and she continued.

"I just got used to you telling me everything about the case and you never told me what you found out when you questioned Steinberg's daughter," she lied—well, sort of. "And I knew you were going to question her beforehand. But, I didn't know why you decided to look into his brother until after you arrested him. I did feel out of the loop."

"I never promised full disclosure," Tristan said, still glowering at her a bit.

"I know, and you didn't have to tell me. I'm aware that you can't tell me everything," she went on. "I know you're a professional. And I'm sorry for assuming to have any idea what your type is," she said cautiously.

"You're right again. You _don't_ know."

She chanced a fleeting glance at him before going on. "You've been a really good source and I don't want a different one."

One of the corners of his mouth turned up dourly. "Are you trying to use flattery to get back into my good graces?"

She turned her head to look at him. "Is it working?"

"It isn't hurting."

She grinned a little. "You're probably the best cop I've come across in all of New York City," she said, though she had trouble keeping a straight face and ended up smiling more. "And I've been doing this for a few years, so that's saying something."

He couldn't help but raise a brow and smirk a bit. "Well, that's why I'm here now, they wanted the best."

"Really? I thought it might be because it's closer to headquarters. So they can keep an eye on you," she teased.

He tilted his head. "That could be the reason, too."

"So, will you accept my apology and continue to be my police source?" she asked hopefully and raised a brow.

He looked at her pensively. She was worried he could see through her. He sighed heavily again, as though he wasn't entirely sure whether or not it was a good idea. "All right," he finally complied.

She smiled at him again and handed over the second cup of coffee.

He took a drink and then remembered something not entirely pleasing. "Aren't you going to go wait for Mark?" He nodded at the desk across from his own.

"Who?" she asked, brows furrowed.

Tristan looked at her like she was crazy. "Stevenson—your boyfriend," he stated incredulously.

"I don't have a boyfriend," she said quickly—and firmly.

He narrowed his eyes and searched her face. He decided he was smart enough not to dispute. "You did know his first name, right?" he asked with his brows knit.

"Of course I did," she said quickly.

"I wish you weren't such a liar," he said, shaking his head.

"I _did_ know! I'm just not used to hearing you call him by his first name. He wrote it on a piece of paper with his phone number."

"You didn't save the number to your contact list?" he asked suspiciously.

"No, I don't need it."

Tristan was pleased with the statement, not that he changed his expression at all. "Did he not show you a good time?"

Rory considered getting snooty and retorting that it wasn't his business, but what the hell? "Oh, dinner was . . . fine," she said with a shrug. "I mean, we didn't have much to talk about. He didn't want to talk about the case with me, because I'm a reporter. And, well, you know where I rank as far as that goes. We just don't have much in common. He kept mentioning twelve something, but I couldn't figure out what it was. It didn't have anything to do with drummers drumming or partridges, but it was big," Rory said pensively, shaking her head.

Tristan grinned a little. "The Big Twelve, perhaps?"

"That sounds right. What is it?"

"It's a college conference. It's about sports," he explained. "While Harvard and Yale are not in it, the University of Kansas is. Stevenson is a Jayhawk."

"Oh, I think that might have come up. What's a Jayhawk? It sounds like some kind of weird bird."

"It's Kansas's mascot. It has to do with Bleeding Kansas—before the Civil War. You're going to have to clear out your lunch schedule for the next few months if I'm going to teach you all there is to know about college sports and mascots."

"Well fine, but I don't want to talk about just sports," she said.

He furrowed his brows briefly, surprised by her problem being the subject rather than the idea of lunch. But he recovered in an instant. "So did he bore you with sports all night, then?"

"Mostly. I asked him what he likes to read, but he only likes—"

"Stephen King novels," Tristan said, finishing her sentence.

Rory pointed at him. "Yes, not that there's anything wrong with that, I've read some. But I have a larger interest pool."

"And what _is_ in your repertoire these days?" he asked, glancing at her purse. "It doesn't look like you can fit many books in there—if any."

She grinned and pulled out her phone. "Au contraire," she said. She touched the screen a few times and handed it over.

He looked at the screen and scrolled down, viewing all the books she had on it. He smiled slowly. "Ah, I see. You don't have to keep a book on hand. You have your entire library with you at all times."

She cringed guiltily. "Actually, that's not my whole library. I still like to keep and buy the real thing. And, okay, there are some books I have on there _and_ I have the hard copy."

Tristan shook his head and continued to smile. "You haven't changed at all," he commented.

"I've changed some," she disagreed before she took her phone from him and put it back in her purse.

"Well, then, what _are_ you reading now?" he asked again.

"Several things."

"Naturally."

"Well, I'm reading some fiction by Russian authors," she said before she snuck a peak at him as she closed her purse and with a sly half smile, she continued. "As far as non-fiction goes, I've been reading _American Lion_, a biography about—"

"Andrew Jackson," Tristan finished, with interest.

"Yes. Have you read it?"

"Yeah, a few years ago, when it was written. Andrew Jackson was a badass."

"Well, sure. How many other presidents have ever been in a duel?"

"None. You know, some people call him King Andrew, because he considered the presidency as being voted king," Tristan explained.

"Yeah, he was pretty cool."

"No arguments here."

"Is he your favorite president?" she asked.

"I don't have any problems with my twenty dollar bills, but he might be tied with Theodore Roosevelt."

"That's kind of a cliché, isn't it?"

"Only if he's your favorite because of something silly, like the story about the bear he didn't kill."

"That's true. Teddy wasn't even his nickname."

"I know," Tristan agreed with a grin. "It was only people like _you_ who called him that."

"People like me?" she asked with a smile.

"Yup, the media."

"Fine. So what's your good reason, then?"

"Well, he was a commissioner of the New York Police Department, for starters. Plus, he was the Trust Buster. He was a Republican—"

"But his party didn't really like him," Rory finished as she continued to smile. "I know. That's why he was vice president, because they thought they were getting him—"

"Out of the way, where he wouldn't do any damage," he finished, getting into it. "They don't make politicians like him any more. And do you know where he went to college?"

"Gee, I don't know, was it the third best school in the country?" she asked.

He looked pained and mouthed the word 'third' with a questioning expression. "Don't tell me _Princeton_ is second?" he asked as though the word tasted bad.

"Well, yeah—for the sake of the rivalry."

He shook his head, offended. "You know, T.R. isn't the only great president who went to Harvard. Franklin Roosevelt did, too. That's both Roosevelt's. I think that really says something about Harvard's superiority."

"Gerald Ford and Bill Clinton went to Yale."

"How are they better?" he asked with furrowed brows. "Both Adams' went to Harvard. And I think you're forgetting a couple of your fellow Yalies who've gone on to live at Sixteen Hundred Pennsylvania Avenue."

"Who?" she asked innocently.

"They're pretty recent. George Bush—junior and senior."

"Hey, Junior got an MBA from Harvard. I'll claim him when you do."

Tristan smirked and shook his head. "Pass."

"You can't pass."

"I just did!" he said with a smile as Mark entered the precinct. "Hey, Buddy," he said in greeting.

"Hey," Mark nodded. He looked at Rory. "Could I talk to you for a minute?" he asked, jerking his head toward the hallway.

"Sure," she answered.

He had already headed towards the hall as Tristan leaned in closer to Rory. "_Let him down easy_," he said in a loud whisper. "I still have to work with him all day."

"Okay, but I think he'll survive," she said before she stood and walked out of the precinct.

She proceeded to listen to why she and Mark would not be going to dinner again before she went back to the seat next to Tristan's desk. He was drinking the last of his coffee when he looked at her. Mark had gone to the captain's office, so they were still relatively alone.

"What's wrong? You look . . . surprised? Or is that look incredulous?"

"I'm both, but add offended."

"Why?"

"He said he can't get past the fact that I'm a reporter. He thinks we're all—"

"Parasites?"

"Basically. He didn't even let me tell him we should just be friends. In fact, he probably doesn't _want_ to be."

"Tough break. That doesn't make you want him more, does it?" Tristan asked.

"No," she retorted.

"That's good. You're stronger than I am," he said before looking at his watch. "It's eight o'clock. Do you need to be at work?"

"Not necessarily, I can be working now. Has Roman said anything yet?"

"Nope," Tristan answered with a shake of his head. "He's still pleading the Fifth."

"Did you know he hasn't been speaking to his mother and Daniel—since the land thing?"

"No. I just knew he was upset about it."

"Well, he wasn't talking to them. And the sisters aren't speaking to each other either, because of something Becky told their mother."

"What did she tell her?"

"Oh, they had a meeting about the land purchase. Becky thought their mother should be there, Dana disagreed, Becky told their mom what Dana said," Rory explained. "Your basic 'she said-she said'."

"What a fun bunch," Tristan commented wryly.

"Yeah, I think The Ramones wrote _We're a Happy Family_ about them," Rory agreed. "They all have their panties in a twist over this. Did you ever find out if Daniel and Ann paid his mother full price for the land?"

"We did find out, and they did not. But I don't know how that's supposed to help us. We don't have any evidence indicating he was going to sell it for a larger profit. And again, I don't know if it would help if he was."

"I suppose it's just an interesting side note at this point. Hey, didn't Dana say Roman was at work last Monday morning?"

"Yes. And he was. But he usually gets there at eight. Monday he wasn't there until eight forty-five."

"But he won't say where he was?"

"Nope."

"Well, he's not coming off as innocent," she observed.

Tristan nodded in agreement. "Yeah, but he's innocent until proven guilty. And we haven't proven anything yet."

"Maybe you should talk with Dana some more," Rory suggested. "If he did do it, maybe she was a co-conspirator."

"Could be. We searched his house Saturday and didn't find anything. We're going to go back to look in his office this morning."

"And?

"And what?"

"Who are you going to talk to while you're there?"

Tristan considered her a moment. "Who is Dana Johnson, for four hundred, Alex?"

Rory nodded in approval. "Correct. Did Roman's wife know where he was last Monday?"

"She goes to the gym every morning when he leaves for work. She said he may have taken their younger son to school. But the school starts around eight, plus it's on Roman's way to work. So even if he did, it wouldn't have taken him until eight forty-five. Sarah doesn't have to say anything incriminating against her husband, anyway."

"Remind me to get married before I start killing people."

"Sure thing," Tristan agreed as Mark walked back to his desk.

"How was the rest of your weekend, DuGrey?" he asked.

"Fine. I had a date Saturday night," he answered casually.

Rory felt a stab of something, which she tried to ignore. "I didn't know you had a girlfriend," she commented, hoping to sound just as laid-back as he had.

Tristan looked at her. "I don't. It was just a date with some girl. Envious?" he asked with a cocked brow.

"Never," she lied. "It's good to know you didn't wake up all alone in your bed yesterday morning," she added, slightly scathingly.

His expression turned quizzical. "Why?"

"The obvious reason," she answered, just a little perturbed.

"Well, sure. But why would I wake up in _my_ bed?"

"Because you just said—"

"No, _you_ just said. But either way, that would imply that I brought a woman to my place. Then she'd be there the next day. If I go to her place, I can leave whenever I want."

"Charming," she said sarcastically, her eyes narrowed. He merely shrugged in nonchalance. "I should go. I don't want to get in the way of your locker room talk," she said in a huff as she stood up and started to walk away.

"Bye," he answered, not noticing her mood swing. When she was gone, he looked to his partner. "You know, I did wake up alone in my bed yesterday morning."

"What, no date?"

"Oh, I did. But it ended earlier than usual."

"What happened?"

"I made the mistake of talking about why I was in a bad mood. It had a lot to do with—"

"I know who it had a lot to do with."

"Apparently, when you're on a date, girls don't like it when you mention another girl. Even if it's in the context of an argument."

"No, I don't think they _do_ like to hear about other women, in general. So, why did you say that stuff to her?" Mark asked as he jerked his head in the direction Rory had just walked.

Tristan shrugged. "Try to make her jealous."

"Well, congratulations. I think it worked."

But Tristan shook his head. "Nah, she's immune to my efforts. She probably thinks I'm a gigolo, anyway."

"Then why try?"

He shrugged again. "Old habits die hard."

NNNNNNNNNNNNN

An hour later, Tristan and Mark were once again at the office building where they had arrested Roman Steinberg the previous Friday.

They were in the elevator, on their way to the seventh floor, when Mark spoke. "You looked like you were in a better mood this morning when I got in. I assume you two kissed and made up?"

Tristan considered him a moment. "In a matter of speaking. She apologized and said she was upset about not knowing what happened with Steinberg's daughter when we talked to her."

"And you believed that?"

Tristan shrugged. "Sure, what other reason would she have flipped out?"

Mark shook his head and sighed. "You're right, that's probably all it was. You were a legacy at Harvard, weren't you?"

The blonde shook his head. "No, why?"

"No reason, I was just wondering," Mark answered as the doors opened and they walked over to the receptionist.

They showed her a search warrant and proceeded to the man's office. Tristan started opening up desk drawers as Mark did the same with a file cabinet. They looked for a gun first and didn't find one, but continued to look through Roman's things.

After a while, Mark held up a few photos. "Hey, look at these," he told Tristan with a frown.

"Who's that with him?" he asked, referring to the woman pictured with Roman. "She looks . . . younger than him."

"I don't know who it is. Maybe someone around here knows."

They left the office and asked around. A few employees recognized her as someone who worked in the building, but no on knew her name or what she did there. So, they went downstairs to Dana's office next.

"Do you know who this blonde woman with your brother is?" Tristan asked her, showing her one of the photos.

"I'm not sure. She looks kind of familiar, but I don't know where I've seen her."

"Is it true you haven't been speaking with your sister?" Tristan asked.

The woman looked a little surprised by his knowledge of this. "Uh, yes. How did you know that?"

"I heard from a source."

"Well, it's true. I haven't been. I haven't talked to Mom, either."

"Roman, also, hasn't been talking to your mother?"

"Yes, but we have different reasons. He's mad about the land all being sold to Daniel. After Mom had a stroke, Roman was the one who was trying to figure out if we would all inherit the property after she dies. I was never as upset about it—not that I love the situation."

"Did you know he wasn't at the office as early as he usually is last Monday?" Mark asked.

"He wasn't?"

"No, he was forty-five minutes later than usual."

"Oh, well, he doesn't exactly check in with me before going upstairs. So, what's your point?"

Tristan raised his brows at her, a bit surprised by her cavalier attitude. "So, he doesn't have an alibi and neither one of you are speaking to your mother."

"Yeah, but Mom isn't the one who's dead, is she? And just because I'm mad at my sister doesn't mean I'm going to kill her. I didn't have anything to do with Daniel's murder and I don't think Roman did, either."

"Well, until he tells us where he was last Monday, we're keeping him in custody," Mark told her before they left the office.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that morning, both detectives were sitting at a table across from Roman Steinberg in an interrogation room.

"We were looking at some of your bank statements today," Mark said in a conversational tone, "and we noticed that you're a little short on funds—which is kind of a motive to kill your brother, what with him buying your inheritance. And since you can't tell us where you were a week ago before you went to work, things aren't looking great for you."

Roman did not respond. He just glowered at the two men across from him.

"You know, Stevenson," Tristan said casually. "I wonder if he could tell us who the woman in those photos is. You know, the ones we found in his office this morning."

"You're right," Mark agreed pleasantly. "We've been trying to figure it out all morning." He placed one of the pictures in front of their suspect.

Roman glanced at it, but still didn't speak.

"If he can't tell us who she is, I wonder if his wife would know," Tristan pondered out loud.

"I've been wondering that, too," Mark added. "Maybe we should just go ask her."

"No!" Roman finally said.

The detectives looked back at him with raised brows. "Who is she?"

The man hesitated before answering. "She works in the same office building where I work."

"That's what some of your co-workers said." Roman paled slightly. "So, did she help you kill your brother?"

"What? No!"

"You were pissed at him about buying the land from your mom, right?"

"Yeah, after she had a stroke I was worried about the land going into probate—after she dies. I wanted to know if she'd ever updated her will after the early nineties. Then Daniel bought the land. But that doesn't mean I'd kill him over it."

"Were you with anyone last week when he was killed?"

Roman hesitated again. "Yes. I was with her," he answered, nodding at the woman in the photo. "We were meeting about . . . business."

"I'm not so sure about that," Tristan said doubtfully. "But that isn't really any of our business. Do you have a name and a phone number for her? We need to give her a call."

Roman grudgingly took the paper Mark offered him and wrote down the information. The detectives stood up and exited the room.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory was at the precinct late that afternoon. It was almost quitting time, but James wanted to know if Roman had been charged with anything yet and the A.D.A. was once again out of his office. He was talking with a couple detectives over in the corner of the precinct, so Rory was waiting. She would have sat next to Tristan while she waited, but she was still mad at herself for feeling resentful earlier that morning.

Plus, Ann Steinberg was there, speaking with Tristan. Rory watched pensively as he listened to the woman patiently. He patted her shoulder, consolingly and looked like he was speaking to her soothingly. Oh great, Rory thought, now he's showing empathy for another human being. That's just what she needed.

She turned away and started to berate herself. "No. It's not possible. It's _Tristan_," she said emphatically. "It's just because he looks good in those dark shirts he keeps wearing. It would be crazy—_I_ would have to be crazy. I am _not_ crazy," she muttered, shaking her head vigorously.

"Actually," Mark started, he had just walked up to her from behind, "you _do_ sound a little crazy, talking to yourself out here."

She looked up at him quickly. "You scared me."

"Oh, sorry. You know, I have a theory."

She looked at him in surprise. "About the case?"

"Oh, well, at the moment I wish I did. But I was talking about him," he said, nodding at his partner.

Rory glanced back over at Tristan just in time to see him pull a box of tissues out of his bottom desk drawer and hand them over to the woman, who had, presumably, begun to cry. The side of Rory's mouth twitched a little, as another item from his drawer was revealed. She could feel something soften and she had the sneaking suspicion that it was her opinion towards the man in front of her.

"What's the theory?" she asked Mark.

"I'm not sure if you've noticed, but he sometimes comes on a bit strong when you're around," Stevenson commented.

"I _have_ noticed, actually."

"Well, I don't think he's insane."

"I didn't really believe his problem was _mental_."

"No, see, didn't Einstein say that a person, who does the same thing over and over again, expecting different results, is insane?"

"Yeah, so?"

"So, I don't think he expects different results."

"I'm not sure I'm following," Rory said with knit brows.

"He keeps coming on to you, but knows it won't do any good. He's very aware that you aren't interested. My theory is, maybe he figures he might as well have some fun—since that's all he's going to get. It's not really like he has anything to lose."

"Oh," she said, feeling a little bad, or was it disappointment? "Do you have a suggestion for getting him to stop?"

The man shrugged. "Be the change you want to see."

"You've switched to Gandhi."

"Yeah."

"So, what? To get _him_ to behave, _I_ have to change? Am I supposed to actas if I like him to get him to stop aggravating me?" she asked dubiously.

"As the impartial third wheel and eye witness to the show you put on Friday," he started, Rory cringed. "I'd say you're doing a bang up job so far." He was about to walk away, when he added, "If it makes you feel any better, I'd be beating myself up, too, if I had to come to terms with having feelings for DuGrey. And only partly because I'm not into dudes."

Rory bit her bottom lip and knit her brows as he walked over to his desk. She looked back over at Tristan and sighed heavily, in hopeless resignation. A few minutes later, Tristan escorted Ann out of the precinct. He nodded at Rory as he passed her. After the woman was on the elevator, he walked back over to Rory.

"You're back," he observed.

"Yeah. Is there some way Jacobs could leave you guys alone down here and just stay in his office for a while? I'm getting tired of chasing him down."

"I wish there was a way."

"Doesn't he have a cell phone or a pager so people can get a hold of him when he isn't upstairs?"

"Probably, but do you think he'd answer it if he knew it was you?" he asked.

"Why does everyone have a problem with me being a reporter?"

"Don't take it personally."

"You know, you said that before, but how can I not take it personally? A person's job is basically who they are. _I_ am a journalist. _You_ are a cop and I accept that it's who you are."

He looked at her seriously. "Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"Acceptance. And I don't mind who you are, either."

"Oh, thanks. Do some people have a problem with what you do?"

He tilted his head and opened his mouth to answer, when the red headed prosecutor exited the precinct. He stopped short when he saw Rory talking with Tristan.

"Are you here to speak with me?" Jacobs asked Rory. He gave the detective an annoyed look.

"Yes. I just need to check on Roman Steinberg and whether or not he's been charged with anything yet."

Jacobs snorted a bit scornfully. "I'll actually let Watson, here, field that one," he said smugly before he walked off.

"What's his problem?" she asked after the prosecutor had disappeared into the stairwell. "He just referred to you as the less intelligent sidekick."

Tristan shrugged. "He probably has several problems. The first being the stick lodged up his ass."

Rory laughed lightly before continuing. "Well, what happened today?"

He jerked his head towards his desk. "I'll show you."

She followed and sat next to his desk. He laid a photo in front of her.

"Who's the blonde with Roman?"

"That's what we asked ourselves today. The answer is, not his wife."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean she is Roman's alibi and the reason he didn't want to speak up before today. He was with her last Monday morning before work—having a cozy little breakfast. And she _isn't_ his wife," he stressed.

"Oh," Rory said in understanding.

"Yup. He used a debit card at the restaurant they were at, confirming they were there when his brother was shot. Therefore, we had to let him go."

"So let's see, I was right about there being dissidence in the family because of Daniel buying all their inheritance. And I was right about a man straying."

"But you were wrong about the inheritance being the motive and also wrong about which man strayed."

"So, I was a little off, I was still close."

"Tell yourself whatever you need to."

"Who are you going to look into now?"

He shrugged and shook his head. "I don't know," he answered before sighing in frustration. "One sister was in New Hampshire. The other was at work. The brother was with another woman. His immediate family members have alibis and or didn't know what they would be inheriting. I'm not sure where we should go next."

"In my next report, I'll leave out that the police are stumped."

He nodded. "Thanks, you're very kind."

"You're welcome, and I know. Maybe it was a random act of violence."

"That should really narrow things down for us, thanks."

"I do what I can."

He rubbed his face in his hands and sighed again. "I was really hoping it was Roman. He had no alibi, he didn't have a ton of money, and he was mad at his brother and mother for the better part of the year. He had a motive and an opportunity. Until today. I think I liked him better when he wasn't talking."

"Don't worry," Rory said comfortingly. "We'll find the real murderer."

Tristan grinned at her. "We?"

"Yes. I'm still going to solve the crime before you."

"I beg to differ. When _I_ figure it out, it'll settle our little Harvard-Yale dispute once and for all. And Harvard will prevail."

"Tell yourself whatever you need to," she leered.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

On Tuesday evening, Rory was standing among chaos as she scrolled down the contact list in her phone. She waited patiently to hear Tristan's voice for the first time that day.

"Hello?" he answered after a few rings.

"Tristan, I think you need to come down here," she yelled into her phone so he could hear over the noise.

"Come where? Are you at a rave?"

"No. I'm at Becky Steinberg's reception."

"Reception for what?"

"For her wedding, or elopement—whatever."

"You should have asked sooner if you needed a date. Now I have no choice but to think you're only asking me as a last resort."

"No time for jokes right now," Rory said as she moved to a quieter location so she didn't have to shout. "Listen, there's an ambulance on its way for Jason Steinberg, and I'm pretty sure it won't have its siren on."

"Why, what happened?" Tristan quickly asked, fully sobered and serious now.

"The word going around is that he fell from the terrace outside."

"What floor are you on?"

"The eighth," she answered.

"What's the address?"

"I can't remember, exactly. But it's the eighty-four hundred block of West End Avenue."

"Good enough, I'll be right there, don't move," he said before hanging up.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Twenty-five minutes later, Tristan met Rory on the eighth floor. She had been waiting for him at the elevator. The civilian guests weren't allowed to use the stairs or elevator at the moment.

"Where's the terrace?" he asked her as greeting.

"This way," she answered, weaving through throngs of confused and panicked guests, leading him to a door.

There were uniformed officers there, trying to calm the crowd. The door was blocked with yellow crime scene tape. Tristan nodded at a couple of officers and addressed one of them, "Get a guest list and confirm who's here. This might be a homicide."

The uniformed officer nodded and moved away quickly. Tristan lifted the yellow tape to duck under it and he continued to hold it up, allowing Rory to follow him. They both stepped outside and walked over to the ledge. He held his hand up to stop her from coming any closer to the edge, though.

"Why can't I look?" she asked in protest.

"Because you don't want to see the sidewalk," he answered. "It's like _Silence of the Lambs_ down there."

"Oh, well, okay then," she complied.

"Don't touch anything, either," he said before concentrating as he looked all around. "Do you know if anyone was out here with Jason when he fell?"

"No, I have no idea. I wasn't near the door when people started going crazy. I know he was sitting with his mother and sister during dinner. When everyone was finished eating, people got up and milled around the place."

"We'll have to figure out who saw him last," Tristan muttered. He looked around the ground with knit brows, but there weren't any foot prints or any other indication that anyone had been out on the terrace.

Rory watched quietly and stayed out of his way as he looked all over the area. He crossed his arms contemplatively and looked back up just as Mark walked out onto the balcony.

He looked from Tristan to Rory and back with a frown. "Please tell me you at least called me first," he stated.

"_She_ called me," Tristan answered. He frowned and looked at Rory, realizing something for the first time. "Hey, why _are_ you here?"

"Oh, I was talking with Becky earlier today and she suggested that I attend her reception tonight. So I could see that her family is actually functional," Rory explained.

"So much for that," Mark said dryly.

Tristan continued. "I haven't found anything helpful out here. We need to find out if anyone was with Jason when he was out here," he said authoritatively. His partner started for the door and he looked to Rory. "Are you helping to ask questions?"

"Yes."

"Then let's go," he said and put an arm around her shoulders as they moved towards the door. "You know, your being here tonight kind of makes you a suspect," he said with a grin. "I may have to arrest you. Or at the very least give you a good frisking."

"Well, if you throw me in the big house, then you have to promise to come visit me," she answered as she snaked her arm around his waist and smiled up at him sweetly.

"For the moral support?"

"No, for the conjugal visits. You'll come for those, right, if I save my one phone call?"

Tristan faltered a beat. Maybe it was two. "I . . . I think I could clear my schedule to come . . . for you—for that," he stuttered as they both dropped their arms and went through the door.

Rory was pleased that she finally caught him off guard—and that he was letting it show, even if it was brief. He gave her a partly skeptical, partly nefarious look before continuing, in an attempt to gain the upper hand. "You definitely need to be hand cuffed to something."

However, the upper hand was not his to be had that evening. They both ducked back under the yellow tape and she looked at him. "That's probably true. Let me know when you decide what that something should be," she quipped easily before leaving him standing there with his mouth open to respond, though he had no come back at the ready.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

An hour and a half later, the guests were gone and Rory was sitting at a table as Tristan and Mark talked with the remaining officers. When they were finished, they both walked over to the table and sat down, Tristan a seat away from Rory and Mark on the other side of the table.

"So," Tristan said with a sigh, "what did we find?" He looked to his partner.

"The other guests saw Jason eating dinner with Ann and Amy. But when they were finished eating, the ladies left the table to talk with friends and family. Some saw Sarah sitting with Jason when he was still inside."

"Yeah," Tristan agreed. "She said she was comforting him, since his dad died, and all."

"Dana said it looked like she was flirting with him," Rory added.

Tristan scrunched his face up at this. "A touch on the arm and smile might go either way. Maybe Dana inferred wrong, she was a few tables away."

"Maybe," she agreed.

Across the table, Mark continued. "Roman was with a few of his uncles when the chaos ensued. And they were by the bar, on the opposite side of the hall."

"That's true," Rory agreed, "I saw him. He seemed to be keeping as much distance from Ann's family as possible all night."

"Then why wouldn't his wife do the same?" Stevenson asked.

"Maybe she thought they could work things out," Tristan suggested.

"Maybe she knew about Roman's other woman," Rory said. "She could have been trying to get some young action of her own."

"And she thought she'd start with the guy in line to fall into some money?"

"It could happen."

They sat and thought about that for a few minutes before Tristan spoke again. "Where was Amy when Jason was outside?" he asked his partner.

"She was talking to some cousins, before excusing herself to use the restroom. She said she went to the bar to get a drink after that and then she returned to her cousins. The place started buzzing a short time later." Mark saw both Tristan and Rory looked perplexed at this, but they did not make eye contact with each other.

"Maybe he really fell," Rory suggested, hastily.

Tristan gave her a sidelong glance. "Is that why you called for me to come here, because you believed he fell?"

"No," she admitted.

"Then make up your mind. One minute you think she killed her dad, now you think her brother just fell."

"Let's go look outside again," Mark cut in, diffusing the situation before there was one.

They all stood up and walked back out to the terrace, which was still taped off. Rory watched as the two men looked around. Tristan was right next to the building, leaning over the side of the terrace. "This ledge runs along the side of the building," he commented before he took a large step up onto the ledge. He stood up with his back to the wall and took a couple cautious steps along the ledge.

Rory's eyes widened and her heart sped up. She quickly walked over to the ledge. "Are you crazy? We're eight stories up. What are you doing?"

Mark joined her at her side.

"There's a window over here. If no one was seen walking through the door, maybe someone snuck out the window. One of you needs to go back in there—see where it goes."

"I'll go," Rory said, before muttering to Stevenson, "I can't watch. Make sure he doesn't _fall_." She walked into the hall and looked along the wall. There weren't any windows, but the women's restroom was halfway down the banquet hall. Rory went in and half ran to the window on the opposite side of the room. She was about to open it when she remembered she wasn't supposed to touch anything. She grabbed a couple paper towels and carefully lifted the window. She stuck her head outside and saw Tristan a few steps away.

He looked down at her. "What's the verdict?"

"I'm in the women's restroom," she told him. "The window wasn't locked."

"Does it look like someone could have climbed out of it?"

She looked down, under the windowsill. "Well, there's a radiator that could probably be used as a step stool of sorts," she answered.

"Okay, I'm going back to the terrace. We'll meet you inside," he told her before starting back.

"Be careful," she said weakly enough that he didn't hear.

When the detectives returned to the hall they inspected the women's lavatory and blocked off the room with more yellow tape so the windowsill could be dusted for fingerprints in the morning. It was getting pretty late by the time they were finished.

"Well," Tristan said, "we know who was in the restroom right before the incident."

"Amy," Mark nodded.

"Do you have to arrest her tonight?" Rory asked. They both looked at her. "I mean, shouldn't you wait until it's ruled a homicide before you take preemptive action?"

"Let's wait till morning to bring her in, it's late," Mark said. "And she has a point. We should wait until we know for sure it was murder."

"You know you're agreeing with a reporter, right?" Tristan asked him. Mark just shrugged. "All right, fine. We'll leave it for tomorrow. Let's get out of here."

All three went to the elevator and tiredly entered when the doors opened. Tristan pressed the button for the first floor and turned to the other two with his arms crossed. "Who wants a ride home?" he asked them.

Rory raised her hand slowly. Tristan looked at his partner with a raised brow.

Mark shifted his eyes from Rory to Tristan. "No. I'm fine."

"Suit your self," Tristan answered. When they were outside, he led Rory down the sidewalk a few blocks to his car. They got in and he sighed heavily. "And the plot thickens."

She nodded in agreement before adding in a serious tone, "I can't believe I was in the same room as a murderer. And the victim. I'm supposed to be observant. If I'd been paying better attention, I might have seen who was outside with him."

"Don't beat yourself up. You weren't there expecting to witness a crime," he said sincerely. "And if you hadn't been there tonight, some detectives from another precinct would have come and they might not know what's going on in their family. It would have taken longer to make the connection. Not to mention the guests would have left if everyone really thought he just fell. This way, we got to question them when everything was still fresh in their minds."

"Yeah, you're right. I just feel so bad for Ann. First her husband, now her son. And tomorrow her daughter will be questioned about it."

"Yeah," Tristan agreed, looking down, guiltily.

Rory frowned and looked over at him. "What's wrong?"

"When she came by yesterday, she wasn't sure if she was going to come here tonight."

"So?"

"So, I thought it might be good for her to get out. And I told her so."

"It's not your fault her son was killed. He's a grown man, not a kid. Just because his mother was here doesn't mean he came with her. He might have attended if she was going to be here or not. Do you still go places because your parents are going there?"

"Absolutely not."

"See? Her being here had nothing to do with it. And it's not like you were the one to push him."

"I guess you're right."

"I _am_ right. And it's my turn to mark my calendar, since you're finally acknowledging it. Now, are you ready to admit that I'm useful to have around?"

"I never said you wouldn't be _useful_," he said before changing the subject. "Now, where are we going?"

"To the other side of Central Park—Lexington Avenue," she answered. "That's not out of your way, is it?"

"Yes. In fact, you should probably get out and take the subway instead," he answered dryly as he pulled away from the curb.

"No, really, it's late. I'd understand—"

"Rory?" he said pointedly.

"What?"

"I'm going to Midtown. The Upper East Side isn't technically out of my way."

"Oh, okay. So, you live in Midtown, then?"

"Good job. You missed your calling, Doll Face, you should join the force."

"I don't think I could operate a gun."

He grinned. "I could help you with that."

"Well, if I ever feel the need to exercise my Second Amendment rights, you'll be the first to know."

"Excellent. I'm here to help."

"So, you've never mentioned, where did you come from?"

"Where did I come from? My mother's uterus," he answered.

"No, where were you before you were transferred to Manhattan?"

"Oh. Brooklyn."

"Good thing you came to Manhattan. It's the borough with all the good stuff."

"Oh, is it?"

"Yes. It has all the important attractions."

"Well, I'll be sure to check them out in between catching the bad guys."

"Good idea. Hey, I was wondering, did you go straight to being a detective? Or did you have to do the uniformed officer thing?"

"You don't _have_ to be uniformed first. But you have better command of police procedure and can identify with colleagues better when you do."

"That's not answering the question."

He sighed. "Yes. For a little while—just so I could do those two things I mentioned. I figured I should do the thing right. Which means I also had to do a stint as a narc before moving on to better things."

Rory smiled. "Are there pictures?"

"Pictures of what?"

"Pictures of you in your uniform."

"That depends, are there pictures of your mug shots?"

"Only with my mother."

"Well, I'll show you mine when you show me yours. Until then, assume they don't exist."

"That's not fair. You can find mine in the system."

"Oh, that's right. I can."

"Go left up at the light," she instructed.

"Speaking of your mug shots, did you do a bank job?"

"No. My grandparents have money. And so does my dad, now. I'd ask them for money before getting _that_ desperate. Take a right when we get to Sixty-Second Street."

"Okay. Did you," he drew out the word, thinking of another felony, "kidnap the Dean's son and hold him for ransom?"

"Did you listen to what I just said about not needing money? And it didn't have anything to do with Yale or Yale faculty."

"Oh, okay. Give me a break, I'm tired. It's been a long day."

"Did you guys find anything useful today?"

"Nope. We just went back through everything to see if we missed anything. Then we worked on a different case so we could feel better about ourselves. _You_ found the scoop today."

"Oh man, that reminds me, what time is it?" she asked, checking the clock on the radio. It was just after eleven. "I need to send a message to my editor quick. We have until eleven thirty to get stuff in tomorrow's paper." She got her phone out and started typing a text. "Don't worry, I'm telling him the police are looking into the possibility of it being a homicide. I'll hold off on who your prime suspect is."

"I know you will," he answered earnestly. After she pressed send, she looked back up and pointed out to Tristan where he could park on the street. He looked at the building and frowned. "Are you sure you live here? It looks like a business."

"I'm sure. It's an art studio. I live upstairs, across the hall from a couple friends from college, Olivia and Lucy. Olivia runs this studio. She's having an art show tomorrow night, actually," she explained. "My grandparents own the building. They didn't want me living in some studio apartment in a bad part of town for two thousand dollars a month. The gallery is their investment. We pay them rent to live above it."

"At a family discount, I hope?"

"A little. They tried to tell me they were going to pay for my apartment, but I get money from my trust fund funneled into my checking account every month. They were the ones to set up the fund, so there's no reason they should pay for my living expenses, too. I am an adult, after all"

"You prefer to be self-sufficient, then?"

"Yes. I get it from my mom."

"Well," he said with a sigh. "I guess I should be a gentleman and walk you upstairs."

"Gentleman? Isn't it your job to protect and serve?"

He grinned at her. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm very sure. While it has a nice ring to it as a motto, my only responsibility is to enforce the law. I have no legal obligation to protect any individual. There've been several court cases to prove this. Do you want me to name a few?"

"That's not necessary. And I can walk myself. I'm a big girl."

"No, no, come on," Tristan said as they removed their seat belts and got out of the car.

Rory walked to a door next to the studio and unlocked it. "We could go through the gallery, but the alarm is set and then you wouldn't be able to walk back through without me there to set it again and lock the door behind you."

"Oh, so I'd have to stay," he commented.

"Yes. And I'd hate for you to have to do the walk of shame in the morning."

"I _do_ have a reputation to protect."

"Sure you do."

"Okay, so did you steal the Declaration of Independence?" he asked as they walked up the stairs.

"Do I look like Nicholas Cage?" she asked as an answer.

He looked down at her. "No."

"Did you really have to think about that?" He just smiled in response. "And I didn't crack the Liberty Bell, either."

"No, of course not. That happened a long time ago."

"I'd understand if you would be interested in seeing the Declaration of Independence, though—if I'd eluded federal prison and somehow managed to keep it."

"Why? Do you think I believe there's a treasure hidden somewhere?"

"No. It's just that it's an important historical document—that you would maybe want to see," she explained innocently.

He looked at her suspiciously. "What do you know?"

"I went to Yale, so lots of things."

"No. About me?"

She smiled back at him, slyly. "I don't know anything," she insisted as they walked down the hall.

"I don't believe you. Yesterday you said you were reading lots of books, but only mentioned the one about a president and today you think I'd be interested in the Declaration of Independence. I think you know something."

"I know that you are Tristan DuGrey, former Hartford socialite and delinquent, a Harvard graduate and current detective for the New York Police Department—recently transferred to Manhattan. From Brooklyn. Oh, and you live in Midtown. You've revealed snippets here and there, but that's all I know, I swear."

He knit his brows as she stopped at her apartment door. "I'm on to you," he said as he crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder on the wall as she unlocked the door.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said as she grinned and shook her head. She caught sight of his hand and frowned. His knuckles were pinkish purple from bruises and there were a few small cuts. "What happened to your hand?"

"Oh, remember that convenience store robbery slash shooting I told you about last week?" Rory nodded. "We found the guy."

"Oh, well, mazel tov."

"Thanks. It felt good to find _one_ of the bad guys we've been looking for. You could say he resisted arrest when we got to him."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He put up a fight. So, I gave him one."

"You won't get into trouble, will you?"

"No, we were provoked. Sometimes they have to be roughed up a bit."

"Well, you should put something on your hand, so it doesn't get infected."

"It's fine. It doesn't hurt at all."

"I'm very impressed with your masculinity, but put something on it," she said sternly.

"Don't worry about me," he said, looking down at her as she opened her door.

"I'm not worrying. I'm just giving you free advice. Lucy van Pelt would have charged you a nickel."

"And yet, Lucy is probably a good person to compare you to."

"Why? She always leaned up against Schroeder's piano and he'd ignore her," Rory protested.

"Uh, am I supposed to be Schroeder in this? Lucy _liked_ him, you know—but he was into Beethoven, not her. I was comparing myself to Charlie Brown. She'd set that football up and he'd fall for it every time. You'd think he'd learn and get tired of ending up on his ass."

"I'm not setting up a football," she said quickly. "What do you keep running towards?"

"Nothing. Are you leaning on my piano, then?" he asked, frowning and knitting his brows. "I don't get the metaphor. But it sounds kind of dirty."

"It would only sound dirty to _you_. And maybe my mother."

Tristan shook his head, he was getting confused. "Either way, you should be careful. It _almost_ sounds like you're concerned about my well-being," he said.

She looked up at him, a little more serious. "I do care," she started. "A little. . . I mean, don't get too excited about it. While I wouldn't have thrown a party if you had fallen from that building tonight, it doesn't mean I'm offering to be your private nurse, or anything."

"I wasn't asking you to," he replied, shaking his head.

"Good," she said softly, gazing back at him. They looked at each other in silence for a couple beats longer than required.

"Are you going to go in?" he asked quietly, nodding at her open door. "I'd like to go home some time this decade. Or did you want a good night kiss?" he leered casually, with a half smile.

"No," she lied breathily and shook her head back and forth. She hoped she wasn't blushing as she opened the door wider.

Tristan stood up straight. "I didn't think so. Good night, Rory," he said as he turned to walk away.

She stopped before entering her apartment and looked back at him. He was getting closer to the stairs. She bit her lip in hesitation before speaking up. "Hey, Tristan," she called.

"Hmm?" he asked, stopping to turn back to her.

"You're new around here," she stated.

"What?" he asked with knit brows.

"You're new to Manhattan, I mean—we established that. You should come tomorrow night—to Olivia's art show. You can get in touch with Manhattan's art scene—if you want. I mean, if you like art. You don't have to if you're busy or if you have other plans," she started to ramble.

He cut her off before she could continue. "Sure . . . maybe," he answered.

"Okay. Well, maybe I'll see you tomorrow."

"You usually do," he said and grinned at her cheekily.

Rory felt her stomach drop when he did so. When he had disappeared down the steps she sighed in despair and entered her apartment.


	5. Headspace

**Title**: Contraband

**Chapter ****5**: Headspace

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

_Kissing is a means of getting two people so close together that they can't see anything wrong with each other. __–Rene Yas_

**Headspace**

Tristan crossed his arms in concentration and looked through the window in front of him. Stevenson was in the interrogation room, questioning Amy Steinberg. They'd brought her in that morning and had let her sit for a while. Now it was time to get her story. Tristan hit the button to the left of the window so he could hear the proceedings.

"I understand you have some credit card debt, what have you been buying that's so expensive?" Mark asked the young woman.

"You brought me down here to talk about my credit card debt?" she asked in disbelief.

"Just answer the question."

She shrugged. "I like nice clothes. That's not a crime."

"No, but needing money is a motive to commit one. And it looks like you needed some money."

"I did _not_ kill anyone. I wasn't at that alley where my father was shot and I wasn't anywhere near the terrace when my brother fell off."

"So you think he really fell?"

"I don't know why anyone would want to push him," she answered with her palms up.

"What can you tell me about these bars you can't enter any more?"

"I had some to drink," she answered vaguely.

"It's a bar, everyone drinks at a bar. Did everyone else get banned, too?"

"No."

"Then why did _you_?"

"I may have had a little too much to drink."

"And?"

"And I may have gotten into an argument with another girl."

"About what?"

"I don't know. I can't remember."

"It was just an argument?"

"It may have gotten heated."

"Heated?"

"Yes."

On his side of the window, Tristan scribbled something on a piece of paper and knocked on the door. Stevenson got up to open to answer it and Tristan handed over the paper without a word.

Mark nodded and went back to the table. "I need a better description of heated," he told the blonde woman.

"Can't you just look at the police reports?"

"I can, I have them right here actually. But I'd really like to hear your side of things."

"Fine, I was arguing with this chick about something—I don't remember what—and I hit her. We got into a fight after that."

"A fight?"

"Yes."

"Is this what happened at both establishments?"

"Yes."

"Who got physical first?"

She hesitated. "Me."

"Both times?"

"Yes. What does this have to do with anything?"

"Well, if you're prone to violence, maybe that's what happened last night. Maybe you didn't mean to shove that hard, perhaps it was just an accident."

"I didn't shove anyone last night."

Tristan knocked on the door again.

Mark looked at him impatiently when he opened the door. "Do you just want to do this?"

"Sure, I'll tag in," he answered nicely. "You were doing great, though. And I'll only need a minute." The two men traded places. Tristan sat down and looked at Amy. "You say you didn't hit anyone last night, correct?"

"Right."

"You didn't give anyone a shove, either?"

"That's what I said."

"Did you have anything to drink last night?"

"Yes."

"Anything with alcohol?"

"Yes. That's not illegal, I'm over twenty-one."

"Oh, I know. That's not what I'm getting at. You were drinking at those bars, too, when you got into altercations?"

"Yeah, but they were bars—"

"And people drink at bars. I know, that's been established. So, at those bars, you were drinking and got into fights?"

"We've established that, as well," she replied in a bored voice. "You're a quick one."

"Thanks, I agree. Now, you don't remember what you were arguing about—either time—when things got heated?"

"Right again."

"You have no recollection at all?"

"No, I can't recall."

"Because you were drunk?"

"Yes."

"And you were drinking last night?" he asked again.

"I wasn't drunk."

"Yes or no."

"I didn't have that much!"

"Answer the question," he ordered.

"Yes," she answered.

"So, one might say that you could have gotten into an argument last night and wouldn't remember, since you were drinking."

"I _do_ remember and I _didn't_."

"But you could have."

"No, I could _not_ have," she insisted impatiently.

"And when things get 'heated' for you, you get physical," he continued.

"They didn't last night."

"Where were you when your brother 'fell' from the terrace?"

"I wasn't even near him. I was talking to some family members."

"The whole time? You never got up for anything?"

"I got up to go to the bathroom and then I got a drink at the open bar."

"Right," he nodded briskly as he stood up. He stepped back out of the small room and next to his partner. At some point while he had been in the room, the A.D.A. had walked over to watch. "She's all yours," Tristan told the other detective.

Stevenson stepped back into the room and the other two observed.

"When you went into the restroom, what did you do?" Mark asked Amy.

"What do you _think_ I did?" she asked suspiciously.

"I'll ask the questions. Now I'm a man, and I only do my business when I go to the men's room. But I know women sometimes go in to . . . powder their noses, or something. So humor me, what did you do?"

"I walked in and went into a stall," she started slowly, like he was a small child. Or slow.

"Which one?"

"Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack. Which one?"

"The . . . third one from the door. I used the toilet. Do you need a number, or something?"

"No."

"Well, I did my business. Then I washed my hands and left."

"Was there anyone else in there at the same time?"

"Not when I went in, but someone walked in while I was still in the stall."

"What did that person do?"

"The same thing I did. Do you want a stall number?"

"Please."

"The second one, next to the one I was in. The side closer to the door."

"Did you see who it was?"

"No. She left before I was finished."

"So, you know it was a woman?"

"Well, it was the _women's_ restroom, and she had on two-inch black heels, so I'm going to go with yes."

"Did you wait for her to leave before you opened the window?"

"The window? I didn't touch the window. It's October, why would I open it?"

"To get some air. Or to climb out unnoticed by the rest of the party."

"Well, I didn't—I tend to run cold—and we were on the eighth floor, where would I have climbed to? I did what I went in there for and I left. That's it."

"Did the other person open it, then, when she was in there?"

"No, she just washed her hands and left. I heard the door open and close."

"How long was it after you left the restroom that word spread about your brother?"

"About ten minutes, I guess. My aunt, Dana went in after me. She can tell you I was in there around the time my brother fell."

"That's what we're hoping."

"What does this have to do with Jason?"

"A lot. You needed money and didn't want anyone to see you walk out onto the terrace. So you snuck out the window. You argued and shoved him."

"I did _not_," Amy exclaimed angrily.

"If you want to confess before the results from the fingerprints come in, I can talk with the district attorney's office for you. You could get a deal."

"A deal for what? I'm not confessing to anything, because I _didn't do_ anything."

Outside, Jacobs tilted his head towards Tristan. "Even if the fingerprints come back matching hers it doesn't mean we can charge her for murder."

"You know I'm perfectly aware of that. It's just an idea we had. None of the guests saw anyone join Jason outside, not through the door, at least. The window is just another way someone could have gotten out."

"Wouldn't that have been pretty dangerous for her to risk her life up on a ledge just so no one would see her walk outside?"

Tristan shrugged. "Perhaps not, if she really wanted her brother out of the picture. She _does_ have a motive. Plus, I walked out on that ledge and I'm still here. But don't worry about evidence. We'll be double checking people's statements today, to make sure they have the same story. An eyewitness and or a confession _would_ be sufficient evidence. And fingerprints would collaborate."

"I know how it works."

"I'm sure you do."

"That was some shrewd distorting of the facts you did when _you_ were in there," Jacobs commented, nodding towards the window.

"Oh, you saw?"

"I did."

"Were you impressed?" The detective smirked.

"It's _my_ job to do the cross-examining, you know," the prosecutor stated as his answer.

"And it's ours to think of the theories. But don't worry. I'll be watching when you get your turn. If you ever want some tips, let me know," Tristan said in a cocky tone before he left the window and went over to his desk. He took out a long list of guests' names and picked up his phone.

It was going to be a long day.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Meanwhile, in the newsroom, Rory had a list of her own, though it was much shorter. She was starting with the bride. She'd just gotten a hold of Becky.

"I feel awful about all of this," the woman explained desolately. "Jason is a good guy. He's always quiet and nice. He was the first grandchild, you know."

"I did know that. Now, I was there last night and I didn't even see him walk out to the terrace. Did you see him go out there?"

"No. I saw him sitting out there. But I didn't see when he went out."

"Did you ever see anyone out there with him?"

"No. Why?"

"Have you read the paper today, by chance?"

"I haven't. I've been really busy and distracted, why?"

"No reason. But you're sure you saw Jason out there by himself?"

"Yes. He shouldn't have been sitting on the edge like that—so dangerous."

"He was?" Rory asked quickly.

"Yes. He was just sitting there, looking lost in thought. He didn't look like he wanted to talk to anyone. I can't really blame him for that. He's been through a lot this past week."

"That's true. Thank you for talking with me today. I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you."

"Oh, and congratulations on your wedding."

"Right, thanks."

Both hung up after that. Rory looked at her list and dialed another number.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mrs. Johnson, this is Veronica More at the _Daily News_, do you have some time to talk with me?"

"I guess so. About last night, I assume?"

"Yes. I understand you saw your nephew when he was still inside the banquet hall."

"Yes, I did."

"Was anyone with him?"

"After his mother and sister walked away, you mean?"

"Yes."

"I saw Roman's wife, Sarah, talking with him."

"And how would you describe their interaction?"

"Well, I thought Sarah looked pretty friendly, if you know what I mean."

"I think I do. How did Jason seem to respond to such attention?"

"He didn't look like he was into it. I saw him shake his head."

"Sarah didn't go outside with him, did she?"

"I don't know. I didn't actually see him get up. The next time I looked at that table, it was empty."

"You don't know where either of them went?"

"No."

"What were you doing when things got crazy?"

"Well, it was after I went to the restroom."

Rory perked up, but remembered not to get too eager. "Was there anyone else in the restroom when you went in?"

"No. My niece had just walked out."

"Which niece?"

"My only niece, Amy."

"She was the only who had been in there before you?"

"I guess."

Rory thought quickly. "Was it hot in the restroom?"

"Actually, no. It was really cold."

"Really? Because when I went in there earlier in the night, I thought it was really hot."

"Oh that's right, you were there last night. I forgot. Anyway, it definitely wasn't hot. Some idiot opened the window."

"Really?"

"Yes. It was all the way open, cool air was blowing in."

"Did you close it?"

"No. I was only in there for a couple minutes. I didn't care that much."

"And no one else came in while you were in there?"

"No, I was all alone. Oh, I have to go. My secretary says the police are on the other line."

"Okay, thanks for your time," Rory said before she hung up.

She sat in thought and quickly drummed her fingers on her desk in agitation. She contemplated who she should call next and picked up the phone. However, she changed her mind and sat it back down. Instead, she picked up her cell phone and quickly typed a text. She sent it to Tristan and picked her office phone back up without waiting for him to respond. She dialed and waited.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mrs. Steinberg, this is Veronica More at the—"

"_Daily News_, I remember."

"Yes. Would it be possible for me to come ask you some questions?"

"Here? At my home?"

"Yes, if that's okay."

"I guess that would be all right."

"Great, I'll be right over," Rory said before hanging up and gathering her things.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A short time later, Rory was sitting in the kitchen with Sarah Steinberg. Sarah made them coffee and handed a mug to Rory before she took a seat at the table. The reporter wasted no time as she got right to the point.

"I saw you were talking with Jason last night when he was still inside," she fibbed a little.

"I did talk to him."

"What were you discussing?"

"Oh, not much. He was so down about losing his dad. I was just trying to cheer him up a little."

"Was that all?"

"Yes. And that's what I told the police. Both times."

"Both times?"

"Yes. They called today and I had to recount everything again. Your asking makes it the third time."

"Oh, sorry. I didn't know they were calling people today." She knew a little.

"Well, they are. Not that I minded talking with Detective Studley for a second time, but he's all business."

Rory felt her face warm slightly, but she went on. "What did you do after you left Jason? Was he still sitting there, or did you get up at the same time?"

"I went to get a drink. My husband was over by the open bar."

"Right. Did you see Jason walk out to the terrace?"

"No. I don't know when he went outside. I had to use the restroom and when I came out, people were running around like chickens with their heads cut off."

Rory looked at her calmly. She made no indication that she was at all interested in what Sarah had just said. She was getting better at controlling her facial expressions. "So, you were probably in there when he fell?"

Sarah shrugged nonchalantly. "Probably."

"Was it hot in there—the restroom—to you? I thought it was really hot. In fact, I had to open the window, it was so hot," Rory lied in what was only a slight ramble. "I closed it before I left, I know some people don't like the cold. But I swear, I almost suffocated."

"Are you sure you closed it?"

"Positive, why?"

"I think it might have been open when I was in there."

"Was it?"

"Yes."

"Do you know who opened it?"

"You just said _you_ did."

"Oh right. Of course." Rory mentally slapped herself. Good job, Gilmore. You can't even keep your story straight for two seconds. You _are_ a bad liar. "Was anyone else in there when you were?"

"Amy was already there when I went in."

"So did she leave before you, then?"

"No. I left first."

"She was still in there when you left?"

"Obviously." Rory sat in thought for a moment. "I just feel so bad about Jason," Sarah started. "I hate to think that he would have gone out to that terrace while feeling so depressed."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, maybe he didn't fall."

"You don't say," Rory stated dryly.

"I tried to cheer him up, but he was so sad. I just hope he didn't jump."

"He was that sad, huh?"

"I didn't think he was _that_ bad-off, but maybe."

"Uh-huh. You know, you've given me enough to think about, thank you so much letting me talk to you. You have a really nice house," Rory said complimentary. The house _was_ nice. It appeared they did a fair job of keeping up with the Jones's.

"Thank you," Sarah said, standing up. "I'll walk you to the door."

Both stood up and walked to the foyer. "That's a nice bag," Rory commented, indicating a red purse sitting on an end table near the front door. It was open and Rory caught a glimpse at the contents—just normal purse contents any girl would have.

"Oh, yeah. It isn't mine, though. I think Ann or Amy forgot it at the reception last night—they were preoccupied. I picked it up. I'll run it over there when I get the chance."

"Oh, that's nice," Rory said as the door was opened for her. "Thanks again." She walked down the front steps and hailed a cab. When she was in the back seat of the yellow car, her phone started to ring. "Hello?"

"Gilmore, where are you?" her editor asked.

"I was talking with Sarah Steinberg. What's up?"

"Do you really have to ask?"

"You want to know if last night's incident has been ruled a homicide."

"Yes. You had the story last night, God only knows how. Don't sit around and wait for the police to contact you _now_. Get back here and get your source on the phone."

"I'm already out. I'll just drop by the precinct before I come back."

"You don't have to."

"Well, sometimes he's busy and doesn't answer his phone. I've already sent him a message once today and he hasn't responded yet, so I'd probably end up going down there anyway," Rory explained. That was even a mostly true story. Really.

"Do what you want. Just find out what's going on."

"Ten-four, little buddy."

"Don't call me that," James said before he hung up.

Rory gave the driver the address to the precinct and sat back. She checked her cell phone for any missed calls or messages, but there weren't any. After about fifteen minutes, the cab stopped in front of the police station and Rory paid before getting out. She walked into the building, showed her ID to the security guard at the door, and took the elevator to the third floor.

She walked into the detective's squad and went over to Tristan and Mark's work area. Only one desk had an occupant, though.

"Hey Robin, where's Batman?" she asked Stevenson, nodding her head at Tristan's desk. He looked up at her, miffed by her comment.

"I am not Robin."

"Well, you're wearing a red shirt today and I've never seen you do the driving," she reasoned.

He just shook his head. "He had to go to court, as though we don't have enough to do today."

Rory looked at him with furrowed brows. "Why?"

"Because we had to question a suspect and call a bunch of people."

"No, why did he have to go to court?"

"He had to testify for a case from a while back."

"Oh, that makes sense."

"He should be back soon, if you want to wait."

"That's okay. I can just leave him another message."

"All right."

Rory walked back out to the elevator and pressed the down button. But when the doors opened, she didn't step in. Instead, she went over to the bench and had a seat. Maybe she would wait, just for a little while. She sat for about ten minutes before she decided that she really should get back to the newsroom. She stood to leave just as the elevator doors opened and Tristan walked out.

He stopped in front of her and stared for a second before speaking. "Let me guess, you've been calling me and I haven't been answering?"

"Yes and no. I was told to get the latest details and I was already out. So I thought I'd just drop by."

"Well, I would love to be of service," he said, grinning cunningly.

"All right. Have you had lunch? You look hungry. And _I'm_ basically always hungry. We should go get something to eat. I know you're really busy, but if you have time, I have some time," she rambled quickly.

"Sure, I haven't had time to eat today," he agreed tiredly. "Let me go tell Stevenson I'm back."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"This is the place with the good coffee," Rory told Tristan after they'd sat down and placed their orders.

"Ah. Noted," he said, monosyllabically, as he loosened his dark burgundy tie and unbuttoned the top button of his black shirt.

"So how was court?"

"How did you know where I was?"

"A little birdie told me."

"Stevenson?"

"Yes."

"Ah. Well, court was simply delightful, as always. I got to swear on a Bible and answer a bunch of questions. It was awesome," he answered dryly.

"It sounds it."

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket and he took it out. He looked at the name and sent it to voicemail before putting it back in his pocket.

"So, was last night ruled a homicide?"

"It was. But we figured that."

"Yes, but I need it on the record."

"Right, well, record it. Someone pushed him."

"Have you guys questioned Amy today?"

"Yes."

"Have there been any admissions of guilt?"

"No," he shook his head. "She's denying everything. And the guests' stories haven't changed over night."

"I noticed you've been calling people today."

"Did you?"

"Yes. I've been doing the same—but only the family."

"Funny, how our jobs are so similar," he commented.

"It's hilarious."

"I think I could draw a partial Steinberg family tree. Three—possibly four generations."

"Let's see what we know," she said as she pulled her notepad and pen out of her purse. She opened the pad to a blank sheet and drew a line. She drew a dot at the far left side. "Okay, Amy was with her family until dinner was over, which was around eight o'clock, then people started getting up and she went to talk with her cousins, right?"

"Right."

Rory added a dot and a description. "Then, she got up to use the restroom. What did she say about the window?"

"That it was closed and she didn't open it."

"Hmm, that's weird," she pondered.

"Why?"

"Sarah said she went in when Amy was in there and the window was open."

Tristan looked up sharply. "She said that?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Today. I was at her house before I came here."

"She said the window was open when Amy was in there?" he asked again to clarify.

"Yes. Why, what did she tell you?"

"That she went to get a drink after she left Jason. Roman confirmed that she was over there."

"Yeah, and after _that_ she went to the restroom. When she came out things were getting chaotic."

Tristan shook his head. "No. The person who was in there when Amy left before her—Amy claimed not to know who came in. She left and got a drink from the open bar, which was about the time one of her great uncles saw Jason splattered on the sidewalk—he went out to smoke a cigar. It was ten minutes after Amy came out."

Rory shook her head this time. "No, Sarah said she came out of the bathroom when things were getting hairy and Amy was still in there. And Dana said she saw Amy come out before she went in."

Tristan thought about this with a scrunched forehead. The waitress brought them their food and Tristan ignored another phone call on his cell. "Dana said she heard the news after she came out of the bathroom. Was _she_ in there the same time as Sarah?" he asked. "She didn't say she was."

"No. Dana was the only one in there at the time. She said the window was open."

"Yes, she did say that."

"Sarah said it was open when she was in there. But, I may have suggested that I opened it, because of the heat in the room," Rory admitted with a cringe.

Across the table, Tristan froze before he sat his sandwich back down and raised a brow. "You what?"

"I just mentioned that it was hot, so I opened a window. I was only trying to find out if it was open when she was there. You know, jog her memory—suggest it had been tampered with."

"Jesus Christ, Rory. What are you doing? Aren't the details complicated enough without you making up your own?" he asked incredulously. He rubbed his forehead with his hand and took a deep breath.

"Well, it's done now," she said resolutely. "And she asked if I left it open."

"What?" He looked back at her.

"Yeah, I said I closed it before I left and she asked if I was sure, because it was open when she went in."

"Amy said it was closed the whole time. And that the other person didn't open it."

"Someone is lying_,_" she said, scandalized.

He nodded in agreement. "Yeah, but which one? Disregarding _you_."

"Well, two people say the window was open already. One says it was closed the whole time."

"Plus, there's a time discrepancy. There's about a ten minute increment where people's stories aren't matching up."

"Can't you hook them all up to a lie detector?"

"Those aren't always accurate. Some people can trick them."

"You keep telling me when I lie. Can't you tell when other people do?'

"I can tell when _you_ do because you're so _bad_ at it. Others are more skilled at the art of dishonesty."

There was no point arguing, she knew it was true. "Are _you_?"

"I have to be, a little. Sometimes I bend the truth when conversing with suspects. You know, pretend like I know more than I really do—so they'll admit to stuff."

"Oh."

"But I don't make a habit of it in every day life."

"Good to know."

"Let's start over," he said, reaching over and taking her notepad. He turned to the next blank page and took a pen out of his pocket.

"That's weird, that looks familiar," Rory observed.

"What does?" he asked as he drew a line.

"That pen."

"Oh. That _is_ weird."

"Maybe because it's mine."

"No, that's your pen," he said, nodding at the writing utensil in her hand.

"Yeah, and _that's_ the one you stole from me last week."

"No, you gave this to me. It was generous of you. It works really well."

"I know it does—since it's _mine_."

"Well, now it's mine."

"I should perform a citizen's arrest on you," she said in a slight pout.

"I would love to see you try," he leered, though only halfheartedly. "Okay, this is the ten minutes in question. Amy went into the restroom," he said, tracing over part of the line and labeling it. "In the middle of that, Sarah went in and then came out. And after Amy left, Dana went in."

"Now the window."

"Amy said it was closed the whole time—"

"But Sarah and Dana said it was open," Rory added. "And Sarah was in there at the same time as Amy, which means it would have been open the whole time."

"Right. Now Amy said she got a drink and returned to her cousins and that's when they heard about Jason."

"But Sarah said she got a drink before going in the restroom and then came out when the party was getting chaotic."

"Parts of the accounts match, but others don't," Tristan pondered. He sighed and closed his eyes a few seconds. When he opened them, he changed the subject. "You know who went to Harvard?"

"The Unabomber?"

"Well, yeah. But that's not who I was thinking of."

"Oh, who went to Harvard?"

"Conan."

"The Barbarian?"

"No. O'Brien. And he's funny."

"Ah. Are you trying to tell me that you need a laugh? I don't have a _Walker, Texas Ranger_ lever, but I could tell you a joke, if you'd like."

"That's not necessary," he said as his phone buzzed again. He growled impatiently and answered it. "_Yes_?"

Rory took the time to text James. He was probably wondering where she was.

"What for?" Tristan asked into the phone. "I can't. . . Today is Wednesday, it's a school night. . . Because I don't want to, for one thing. And for another, I've been having a long day." He listened before speaking again. "Who will be there? . . . Then I definitely don't want to come. . . No, _you're_ being unreasonable. I have things to do. . . New York things. Pick a thing, that's what I have to do."

He listened some more and Rory didn't want to eavesdrop, so she went to pay the check and returned after a couple minutes with two to-go cups of coffee.

Tristan was still on the phone. He rolled his eyes in annoyance and sighed resignedly. "Then I will be there an hour after that. I will not be there earlier. . . Seven thirty, or not at all, Grandpa," he said firmly. "Fine," he retorted before ending the call. He sat the phone down and rubbed his face in his hands.

"Is everything all—," Rory started, but he held up a hand to stop her.

He messaged his temples with his fingers and had his eyes closed. "Well, my day just got longer," he said after he'd counted to ten in his head. "I've been summoned to Hartford for the evening."

"Oh," Rory said, a little disappointedly, thinking of the art show she'd suggested he stop by. "It happens to the best of us."

"I'd rather go another round at court," he said, dejectedly.

"Then it's a good thing I got you a pick-me-up," she said, handing over the second cup of coffee. "You look like you could use one to get through the rest of the afternoon."

"Oh, thanks. You're so privy to my needs."

"Wow."

"What?" he asked, glancing at her.

"You really _are_ worn out. When you said that, it didn't even sound like you meant it to be inappropriate."

He raised a brow. "I must be having an off day." He picked his phone back up and touched the screen a few times. "Oh, you texted me," he observed and, then cringed slightly. "A few hours ago."

"That's right, I did. And it's okay, I know you've been busy."

"Why do you want to know the name of Roman's side dish?"

"I just thought I'd speak with her, find out what her take is on all this stuff happening in his family. It may not be at all helpful."

"Oh, well, knock yourself out. Her name is Alice Lee."

"Thank you," Rory said, taking her notepad back and writing the name down. "And she works at the same building as Roman and Dana?"

"Correct. Do me a favor from now on. Don't add your own details. I have enough to keep track of without the stuff you make up."

"I think I can do that."

"You _think_ you can?"

"I know I can?"

"It concerns me that you're having trouble promising this."

"I promise," she said with her right hand raised. "I won't fib."

"Good. I guess I should get back so I can leave at a decent time," he said resolutely, though he didn't move. "I think I'm ready for that joke now."

"Okay. Knock-knock."

"Seriously?"

"_Knock-knock_."

"I should have been more specific, no knock-knock jokes."

"Ding-dong," she went on insistently.

He sighed and gave in. "Who's there?"

"Alec!"

"Baldwin?" She narrowed her eyes at him. "Alec, who?"

"Alec-tricity. Isn't that a _shock_?"

Tristan grinned, but didn't laugh. He shook his head dismally. "That was terrible."

"No it wasn't!"

"Awful. But I blame myself. Now, if you'd gone to Harvard, like Conan, you might have had a better joke to tell."

"That was a perfectly good joke," she said with a smile.

He shook his head again. "I expect better next time."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that night, Rory was milling around the art gallery. It was nearly ten o'clock, which would be closing time. Olivia was busy with some guests who were purchasing a few paintings, so Rory wandered over to Lucy. The dark haired woman was talking to the head of the wait staff, instructing the man to start cleaning up.

"Hey," Rory said when Lucy had finished. "It's been a good night."

"I know. I knew I would be fantastic. Did your grandparents enjoy it?"

"They did. They even bought a painting."

"Two, actually. Your grandmother said one would go in your grandfather's office."

"Oh, good. They had to leave a bit early. Grandpa has a meeting first thing tomorrow morning. I know they'd have liked to stay longer."

"That's all right, Olivia was glad they could make it at all."

"Do you need any help down here? I was going to head upstairs."

"No, go ahead. Everything down here is fine."

"All right, well, good night."

"Night," Lucy said before heading over to the counter to give Olivia a hand.

Rory was about to walk to the back set of stairs, when she saw out the corner of her eye someone walk through the door. Her pulse quickened elatedly as she watched Tristan glance around and walk over to a painting on the wall. He may have been staring through the painting, rather than looking at it. So, he didn't see her approach. She sidled up next to him in time to hear him exhale heavily.

"That sounded like a pretty pensive sigh," Rory commented.

Tristan looked down at her in surprise. He gave her a bit of a double take and knit his brows. "Well hot damn, you found a pair of pants," he observed, indicating the jeans she was wearing with a navy sweater.

She grinned at him. "Yeah, they were hiding in my drawer. They were there the whole time. Who knew?"

"Huh. Although, that sweater makes you look a little like a Chilton student."

"Or a Yale student. Blue is one of our colors."

"Of course."

"I thought you forgot."

"About Chilton's colors?"

"No, forgot about tonight. This—the art show."

"Oh. No. I remembered."

"I see that now."

He spotted the notepad and pen in her hand and nodded down at it. "Do you take that everywhere you go?"

"Do you take your gun everywhere _you_ go?" she countered.

"Touché. Although," he said, pulling the sides of his jacket away for her to see his belt, sans gun. "My grandfather asked me in the past to leave all weaponry in my car. He might be a Republican, but he's not a member of the NRA."

"I see. And I'm just writing a review of the show for the paper."

"Oh."

"Hey, how did you get back so soon—from Hartford? That's practically a two hour drive to New York. Did you drive there and straight back?"

He snorted lightly. "I wish. But no, I was there for a couple hours. And I drive fast."

"Oh, I guess you don't have to worry about getting pulled over."

"Not so much."

"So, was it not an enjoyable visit?" she inquired.

He sighed again and shook his head. "Not entirely. Those kinds never are."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head again. "Not even a little," he said as he crossed his arms.

Rory looked at his hand and frowned. "I told you to put something on that," she reprimanded, taking his hand, which was cold from being outside.

He looked down at it, not too concerned with the nicks and bruises still on his knuckles. He took his hand back, waving it passively. "It's fine."

"It looks worse than it did last night. I didn't want to say anything earlier because you were tired, but if you aren't going to do anything about it, then let me."

"I'm _still_ tired and it's fine. You need to calm down."

"Listen, I know you're a macho macho man—"

"Then refrain from quoting the Village People in reference to me," he interjected.

"But I won't think less of you for putting ointment on your hand so it doesn't get infected." He sighed tiredly. "Seriously, you're going to need a tetanus shot pretty soon."

"You're grossly exaggerating. But this is the only way you're going to let it go, isn't it?"

"Probably. Plus, Olivia is going to lock up in about five minutes. So you'll get kicked out, anyway."

"Fine. I don't have the energy to argue with you tonight."

Rory led Tristan to the back of the studio where there was a back set of stairs. When they reached the top, she unlocked a door and they walked down the hall to her apartment. She let them in and turned on a lamp. She kicked off her shoes and sat her notepad and pen on the end table.

"Have a seat," she told him, nodding at her couch before she went to the bathroom to get First Aid materials. She started back down the hall, but stopped short when she saw Tristan sitting on her couch. He was reading a copy of _The New Yorker_ that had been sitting on her coffee table. And he had his glasses on. "Well, _that's_ not fair," she whispered fiercely.

"What?" he asked.

"What?"

"I thought I heard you say something."

"Oh, no," she said as she walked into the living room and sat on the couch next to him. She nodded at the magazine in his hand. "Find anything worth reading in there?'

"Well, here's something written by a Lorelai Leigh Gilmore."

"Oh, you stumbled on that?"

"No. I saw it in the table of contents and flipped straight to it."

"Ah. I submit things freelance. Once in a while they actually publish it."

"You like to write about all kinds of subjects," he observed.

"Yeah, I have lots of interests."

"You've mentioned that before."

"That's right, I have," she agreed. "My grandparents came to the art show earlier tonight. They brought me a copy. They wanted to make sure I had one."

"I see. Were they the ones you had the wine with?"

"How did you know?" she asked in wonder.

"Because there are three wine glasses over on the kitchen counter."

"Oh, right. You noticed that? Good deduction."

"That's pretty much what I do—notice things and read in between the lines."

"Right. Good job," she said with a stupid grin. "I just got them a little liquored up before they looked around downstairs."

He nodded. "Nice." He nodded at the First Aid supplies in her hands. "Are you going to do something with that?"

"Oh, yeah—right. That's why you're here," she answered hastily.

He sat the magazine down and pocketed his glasses before settling back into the couch and surrendering his hand. She used a cotton ball to disinfect the cuts on the back of his hand with rubbing alcohol. When it fizzed a little, she glanced up at him.

"It'll take more than that if you want to see me cower in pain," he stated grimly.

She grinned and looked back down. "Just checking," she said quietly. She smeared some Neosporin over the cuts.

He stopped her when she opened a box of Band-Aids. "I don't need one of those, Clara Barton," he insisted, taking his hand away.

"Come on, just for that cut right there," she said, pointing to his hand.

"Those have _Dora the Explorer_ on them," he protested.

"So, just be glad I'm all out of the _Barbie_ kind. You can take it off later, just humor me."

He gave an exaggerated sigh. "Fine," he said, giving his hand back to her.

She put the Band-Aid on and smiled triumphantly. "There, you're all fixed up."

"Thanks. You've been awfully nice today," he said with an arched brow.

Rory looked mockingly offended. "I'm _always_ nice," she said and he laughed inaudibly. She sat the First Aid supplies on the coffee table and sank back into the couch, sitting sideways to face Tristan. A few strands of hair had fallen away and hung at the side of her face.

"Of course you're always nice," he agreed gently. Her blue eyes sparkled a little in the low lamp light as she smiled at him kindly. Tristan's grin faltered and he just barely sighed in anguish as he gazed back at her. He thoughtfully tilted his head to the side as he brought his newly bandaged hand up to slowly brush the stray hair behind her ear. Before he realized what he was doing, his hand had slid down to her neck and his eyes softened when they looked at hers.

Rory's heart sped up as she held his gaze and gravitated toward him, scarcely aware that he was drawing her nearer to him. They both closed their eyes as their lips touched. He kissed her like he was starving and she responded to him with equal zeal. His lips were soft and cool on hers as he kissed her firmly. Rory shifted slightly and he kissed her along her jaw line before returning to her lips, which she parted enough for his tongue to slip in.

His right hand slid to the back of her neck and his fingers intertwined with her silky hair. She gripped the sides of his black suit jacket at its opening and gently drew him a tad closer. Their tongues wrestled insistently before dancing rhythmically. Meanwhile, Rory started to become conscious of growing warmth in a southern location of her anatomy.

Tristan abruptly stopped and moved back, a little out of breath. He looked at her, as though startled, or confused, and she hastily removed her hands from his jacket, in surprise that he had suddenly stopped. "I should go," he said as he stood up and quickly exited her apartment.

Rory sat on the couch with a deer in the headlights look, feeling bewildered and disappointed at what had just transpired.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"Stupid, stupid man," Tristan said in disgust, shaking his head as he walked outside and got into his car. "Just because you were a stupid boy doesn't mean you _have_ to grow up to be a stupid man."

He started the car and pulled away as he continued to lecture himself.

"She isn't some Siren and you aren't a sailor out at sea. Stop steering you ship towards the rocks, you're going to crash," he talked to himself as he drove south.

He remembered what he'd said the night before about feeling like Charlie Brown. How many times do you have to make the same mistake before you learn your lesson? Apparently once didn't do the trick, he scolded himself silently. He'd learned enough from history to know he shouldn't be repeating it.

This game of cat and mouse will not end well for you, he thought. Tom never caught Jerry. Don't you have any self-control at all? You just _had_ to go to that art show. You couldn't have just left well enough alone and gone home.

"You went to Harvard, for God's sake. You're supposed to be smarter than this," he criticized himself out loud as he parked his car at his apartment building.

"I need to invest in a damn pair of earplugs," he grumbled as he got out of the Camaro.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

The next morning, Rory was inside the office of Alice Lee. She still wasn't sure if talking with her would be at all useful, but it wouldn't hurt anything.

"Miss Lee, I write for the New York_ Daily News_, and I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about Roman Steinberg's family situation."

"I'd rather not give an interview. I don't think anyone would want to hear anything I have to say. His is married, you know," Alice said.

"I do know. And it wouldn't be an interview. I'm just doing some research. I'm talking to everyone about it. I tend to do my own investigations."

"Well, I guess if you aren't going to quote me in an article, or anything," the woman said, coming around.

"No, not at all, I swear. This is strictly off the record. Purely for my own interest."

"All right then," Alice said, gesturing to the one chair across from her desk.

"Does Roman talk with you about his family?"

"Yes, he tells me what's going on."

"How does he feel about everything that's happened in the last couple weeks?" Rory asked.

"He feels horrible. I don't know if you know, but he hasn't been getting along with everyone in his family for a while now."

"I've heard."

"Well, he feels really bad. He used to have a good relationship with his brother and now he's gone. They hadn't spoken in a long time."

"How long have you known him?"

"A few years. We met in the elevator. We'd always get to work at the same time and we started talking. That led to lunch here and there. I suppose you can guess the rest."

"I guess I can. What else does he talk about?"

She shrugged. "Just normal stuff—what he's doing at work, what his kids are up to. Sometimes he mentions his wife."

"What does he say about her?"

"He used to complain about her a lot. She likes to leave little honey-do lists for him and they always have to have the most up to date home décor and what not. Listen, I know that isn't an excuse for us to sneak around—"

"Oh, I'm not here to judge," Rory interjected.

"Well, we just like to talk to each other and it progressed. He needed someone to share with. And I like to be there to listen."

"I see."

"I think he also appreciates that I don't nag him all the time. I don't like the fact that I like someone who's married. But I just want to be there for him," she said, as though she was defending herself.

"Thank you for talking with me today."

"You're welcome. Thanks for not bringing a condescending attitude."

"Could I just offer a word of advice before I go?"

"I guess."

"Be careful. This sort of thing can be sticky. Someone could get hurt."

"Oh, okay."

Rory thanked the woman again and left the office. She wasn't sure what she wanted to do next, so she sat on a bench out by the street and watched cars as they passed by. She wondered how long it would be before James called, wanting an update. The results from the fingerprints might be in. She thought about who she'd have to get _that_ information from. Then she thought about how that same person had bolted from her living room the night before. Had she done something wrong? She wondered to herself. It didn't seem like he'd had a problem with her at the time. Until he walked out, that is.

Rory decided to suck it up and just go down to the police station. She could find out if the fingerprint results had come in and if anyone had been charged. Two birds, one stone, she thought. If she _happened_ to see a certain blonde detective and _happened_ to hit him upside his head, then that would just be a bonus. So, she got up from the bench and hailed a cab.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

When she'd arrived, Rory looked up at the multi-story police station. She took a deep breath and walked up the steps to the building. She stepped into the elevator and thought about where she wanted to go. Her fingers hovered over the buttons labeled three and four. She impulsively pressed one and waited. Her heart was beating erratically as the doors opened at the third floor. Tristan and Mark were standing on the other side, on their way out.

"Uh, hello," Rory said, she looked from Tristan to Mark.

"Hey," Mark answered, stepping into the elevator.

"Hi," Tristan said curtly as his eyes darted to her before looking away.

Well, that was a terrific sign, she thought. He followed his partner, so they were all trapped in the small space together.

Tristan was looking a little rough around the edges today, like he was still worn-out. Or sleep deprived. "Are you on your way up?" he asked.

"Oh, uh, no. I was coming to this floor. But it looks like you're leaving—I caught you at a bad time," she explained quickly.

"Crime scene," Tristan said.

"What? I need a verb. And maybe a pronoun," she said with a frown.

"We're going back to the crime scene," he explained.

"I see. So . . . any results from the fingerprints yet?"

"No."

"So no charges then, either."

"No."

"Okay. I guess I can go back to the newsroom then."

"Sounds like a plan," Tristan said, staring at a spot on the elevator door.

Rory was starting to wonder if he had been in her apartment last night at all. Maybe she dreamt the whole thing. A scary thought—now _she_ was the one having wild dreams.

"Actually, do you have some time?" Mark inquired, looking at Rory.

She and Tristan both looked perplexed as they turned their attention to the dark haired man.

"Uh, why?" she asked.

"Well, we're going to look at a women's restroom and we don't know much about the kinds of things that go on in there."

"Oh—um," she started, glancing timidly at Tristan. "Normal things go on. I imagine it can't be much different from what goes on in a men's room. Not that I would really know—never having been in one."

"You don't have to, if you're busy," Tristan put in.

"Uh—"

"Unless you want to," he added hurriedly.

"Well, I can probably spare forty-five minutes or so. If you think it'll help."

"Sure, if you have time," he said hastily. "And if you don't mind."

"I don't mind."

Mark's eyes moved from Tristan to Rory suspiciously as the doors opened. "Weirdoes," he muttered before walking out.

The other two silently followed and walked outside to the black Camaro. When they were all situated, Tristan turned the radio on loud enough that there was no need for conversation—which made the awkwardness much less palpable.

When they arrived at the banquet hall, they went up to the eighth floor. They all went into the women's restroom, which was still blocked off with yellow tape. Rory took her notepad out and turned to the page with Tristan's handwriting.

Mark took the reigns and got the ball rolling. "All right, so Amy came in and went into that stall," he said, pointing to the third stall. "Then at some point, Sarah came in and used the one next to Amy."

"I wonder how Sarah knew it was Amy that was in here," Rory commented.

"Maybe she saw her come in when she was still out there," Tristan suggested, pointing at the door.

"Okay, maybe," she agreed. "And Sarah left first."

"Right," Mark concurred.

"Did she wash her hands before leaving?"

"Yes."

"Did she do anything else?"

"Like what?"

"Did she apply more lip gloss or something like that?"

"Oh right, that's why you're here—a woman's perspective," Mark said.

"Amy said the other person just washed their hands and left," Tristan supplied.

"Okay," Rory started, "well, let's look at the sink."

"Why?" he asked tonelessly.

"I don't know. Do you have another idea?"

"No."

"All right, well, there aren't any hot and cold knobs," she observed.

"So?" Tristan asked. "It has a sensor."

"Right, so it would turn on all off all on its own, the person wouldn't have stick around to do it. And," she looked at the hand drying options," did Amy say how Sarah dried her hands?"

"Uh, no."

"Maybe you should find out."

"Why?" Mark asked.

She took a paper towel. "This takes less time and is mostly quiet, but," she turned on the air drier and yelled over it. "This is louder and takes more time." After the drier stopped, Rory looked to the two men.

"So, you're saying it might have been loud?" Stevenson asked.

"It could have been. And again, someone could walk away from the drier while it's still running. Amy could have heard wrong, if it was noisy."

"But she also said no one was in here when she came in," Tristan argued, eyes fixed on the sink.

"Right, but Dana said the window was open. Maybe someone else came in and Amy didn't hear. Maybe someone snuck in after Sarah left, unheard by Amy, and went through the window."

"Amy claimed it was closed the whole time," Tristan said.

"And we've already talked to everyone twice. No one else was in there at the time," Mark added.

"Right, but the three women can't agree on when the window was open," Rory said. "Someone isn't telling the truth."

"So, how is any of this supposed to help?" Tristan asked, his eyes had moved and were now settled on the window.

"I don't know, it was just a suggestion," she almost snapped, getting defensive. He could at least _look_ at her when he shot down her ideas.

Just then, his cell phone buzzed. "DuGrey," he answered. After listening a moment, he looked up at the ceiling and sighed in frustration. "You're sure? All right, thanks anyway." He hung up and put the phone back in his pocket.

"What is it?" Stevenson asked.

"Fantastic news," the blonde replied sarcastically. "Of all the fingerprints on the windowsill, none were Amy's. I must have been wrong about the window. It was a stupid idea. Most of my ideas have been stupid lately," he said, self-flagellating.

Rory slightly narrowed her eyes at him, wondering what _ideas_ he was referring to. "You might not be wrong," she said, glancing away. "It wasn't a bad theory."

His eyes shifted towards her, glowering at the situation.

Mark jumped in. "Maybe it was one of the other two women."

"Right," Rory agreed. "Or maybe it was Amy, but she used paper towels, so she wouldn't leave fingerprints. That's what I did Tuesday night when you went out on the ledge—because you said not to touch anything. Or maybe she had gloves."

"Dana saw her walk out," Tristan countered.

"Yes, but there's that time discrepancy and the window was open when she came in," she reminded him, holding up the notepad with the timeline he'd drawn the day before. "And the three people who were in here aren't agreeing on whether or not the window was open."

"That's true," Mark agreed. "And no one saw anyone walk out the door to the terrace when Jason was out there. This is the only other way out."

"Well, we're going to have to figure out who the prints _do_ match. And we need to find out who's lying about the window being closed. Or opened," Tristan said, still sounding frustrated.

"Let's talk with Sarah and Dana again," Mark said, moving towards the door.

Tristan followed. Rory took a last look at the bathroom before she walked out, too. She followed the two men, who were making their way towards the elevator.

"I'm going to call the captain and make sure they wait to let Amy go, we should talk to her one more time, find out about the hand drying thing," Mark said.

"All right," Tristan agreed, pressing the button for the elevator.

"You go ahead. I'll get the next one. I won't get service in there."

"Okay," he said as he stepped into the elevator with his arms crossed. He was still glowering.

Rory followed him. She gave him a fleeting look before turning her attention to the line where the doors met after they'd closed. "So, how are you?" she asked without looking at him.

"Fine. You?"

"Fine. I'm fine."

"Good."

If it weren't for his standoffish behavior and monosyllabic answers, Rory would have sworn she had imagined the whole episode from the night before. They were quickly approaching awkwardness of high school proportions—as if she ever wanted to relive _that_ time of her life again.

She quickly looked at him again and nodded at his hand. "That looks better—your hand, it looks better today."

He glanced down at it before focusing on the doors again, as though willing them to open. "Yeah. It is. I think I'll recover."

"That's good."

Neither spoke again until they had exited the building and stood on the sidewalk.

"Well, I guess I should get back to the newsroom."

"Right." She turned to the street, but Tristan stopped her before she got very far. "Hey, uh, Rory? Wait a second," he said.

She turned back to him and her heart sped up some. "Yes?"

"Listen, I want to apologize," he said hesitantly.

For your aloofness today? She wondered. "For what?"

"For last night."

"What about last night?"

"In your apartment—when I kissed you."

When _we_ kissed _each other_, she corrected silently. So it really _had_ happened, she thought. Then she hadn't been hallucinating. Well that was a relief.

He uncomfortably continued, "I was really exhausted and upset about having to go to Connecticut. I wasn't thinking clearly."

"Oh." Awesome. She could feel her heart sink.

"I know it didn't mean anything," he went on. She wished he'd stop talking. It sounded like he was lying. Was this how it sounded when _she_ lied? Like she didn't want to be saying it in the first place? Because it didn't _sound_ like he wanted to be saying the things he was saying. Either way, he continued in this vain. "I just wanted to give you my word."

"What's the word?" she asked, flatly.

"That you don't have to worry. I won't say anything to anyone.

"Okay, thanks," she said tonelessly as she stared at a brick on the wall of the building next to them. "I'm . . . glad we could clear that up."

"So, are we good?" he asked timidly.

She looked back at him and gave a tight, reassuring smile. "We're fine, Harvard," she said a little too cheerily, wondering if that was a lump she felt in her throat—it was. She swallowed hard.

A corner of his mouth lifted—bleakly. In reality, it mirrored hers, in both appearance and spirit. "Great. Oh, and uh, thanks for your help."

"No problem. And really, not all your ideas are bad," she said in a small voice as Mark exited the building.

"We'll see," Tristan said skeptically. "I'll, uh, see you later."

"Sure," she answered before he walked away. Rory watched him climb into his car and wondered what the hell his problem was. Or maybe _she_ had the problem. That was entirely possible.


	6. Can't Get it Out of My Head

**Title**: Contraband

**Chapter ****6**: Can't Get it Out of My Head

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

**A/N**: This is the penultimate chapter of this story (remember, it means second to last, not super ultimate—like Finn thought).

_What you need to know about the past is that no matter what has happened, it has all worked together to bring you to this very moment. And this is the moment you can choose to make everything new. Right now. –Author Unknown _

**Can't Get it Out of My Head**

Friday morning found Rory sitting at her desk, staring at a time line. Marie was next to her, staring as well. They'd been going over the details for a couple of hours, but not coming up with anything new.

"It just doesn't add up," Rory complained with knit brows.

"Not without knowing who's lying," Marie agreed. Rory started to draw the timeline again. "Why are you doing that? It's going to look the same as all the others. You've already thrown several timelines out. The only one you haven't thrown away is the one that isn't in your handwriting."

"I'm just thinking that if I go through it enough times, something will jump out at me."

"Nothing's jumped so far." Marie leaned back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling. "Maybe no one is lying."

"But someone _is_. That's why the witness accounts aren't lining up."

"Sure. But how _can_ they line up? If someone snuck out the window, they would be the one who's messing up the time line."

Rory frowned at the suggestion. "That's true."

"If someone was in the bathroom and snuck out and then back in later, the times aren't going to match. For instance, if Amy was the one who climbed out and her aunt saw her leave the restroom, it doesn't mean one is lying, you just don't know when it was—before or after she snuck out. Sarah could still have been there when Amy was, too. The times wouldn't line up if Amy was there twice."

"That _is_ true. But what about Amy's fingerprints not matching?"

"Hey, I don't have all the answers. That was just a suggestion."

"And not a terrible one. I wonder if they thought of that."

"Who?"

"The police," Rory said, picking up her phone and dialing.

"Are you helping them now? That's a twist."

"We're just . . . sharing information. Helping each other, that's all."

"Uh-huh. Are there any other itches you're scratching for each other?"

"Nope," Rory retorted as she listened to the phone ring. She wasn't sure if she wanted anyone to answer or not. It didn't matter though, no one did. She stood up and put on her jacket.

"Going somewhere?" Marie asked.

"I didn't get an answer. I'm going to go down to the twenty-first. I don't have anything else to do until _they_ get somewhere. I've already talked to everyone—more than once."

"Oh, I see. Good idea."

"What's with that devious smile you're wearing?"

"You spend a lot of time chasing after that Detective DuGrey," the other woman said innocently.

"I don't chase after anyone, least of all him. Take my word for it, _nothing_ is going on there. The only thing I chase is a story."

"Sure."

"I'll be back in a little while," Rory said in parting as she walked away from her desk.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A short time later, Tristan was at his desk, looking down at something in front of him. He noticed someone sit down in the chair next to him, but he didn't look up from his work.

"Can I help you?" he asked vaguely.

"Maybe, it depends on what kind of help you're offering," Rory answered cavalierly.

He looked up in surprise. "Oh, hi," he said. He only sounded slightly uneasy today.

"Hello. How are you?"

"Fine. You?"

Rory rolled her eyes. Not this again. She had already decided that she would act natural. So she powered on. "I'm dandy. But I require your services," she said as she flipped through her notebook.

"We talked to Amy before we let her go yesterday. You were right, she said the other person—Sarah—used the air drier after she washed her hands. So it was loud in there. Dana swears she saw Amy leave a minute or two before she went in and no one else was in the restroom with her. And she said the window was open. Stevenson is getting her fingerprints in the system now."

Rory nodded once and made a note. "You're being weird," she assessed.

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"How am I being weird?"

"I just gave you two opportunities to make lewd remarks and you didn't make any."

"You came for information and I gave it to you."

"I know. But you usually have your fun first."

"You don't like that."

"It's who you are, you can't help it. I've accepted it."

"I obviously _can_ help it."

"Don't change who you are on my account."

"I thought it would be uncouth."

"Of course it would be, but that's never stopped you before. I can either play along or roll my eyes—it's my choice. I can handle whatever you dish out."

"What is wrong with you?" he calmly asked.

"Nothing is wrong with me. I told you we were fine, so we're fine. Now I'm acting normal, but you're being weird."

"Again, no I'm not. _You're_ sense of normal seems skewed though."

She sighed in frustration. "Just be you, don't worry about me."

"Fine. I'll say something really vulgar next time. Happy?"

"Yes, thank you." Tristan shook his head like she was crazy. "Now, I didn't just come for information. I knew you wouldn't have much. I was looking at the timeline with my co-worker and she suggested that no one is lying."

"But someone _is_ lying."

"Yes, but what are they lying about? The window? Or when they were in the bathroom? Maybe all three were in there when they say, but one of them was in there twice." Tristan eyed the notepad with the timeline he'd drawn as Rory continued. "See, we need to find out if the three women were in the restroom at the time Jason was _pushed off_, or when people _found out_. That would account for the time discrepancy. Someone was in there both times."

"_We_ need to find?"

"_You_ need to find."

"I guess that theory would be right."

"So maybe Amy _did_ sneak out and when she came back in, she left before Dana went in."

"But the finger—"

Rory waved her hand and interrupted. "I know, I know. They don't match. What is it with you and proof?"

"It's kind of important in my line of work."

"Fine, maybe they got wiped off or something. The point is, Sarah was in there the same time as Amy and then Dana went in. But we don't know which end of the ten minutes is correct. And the lying about the window is messing up the timeline. Unless there was a fourth person we don't know about, but I prefer not to think about that."

"Well, Sarah will be here soon, so I'll see what I can find out."

"Sounds good. Why is this so hard?" Rory said with a sigh and looked at Tristan pointedly.

He'd been thinking about the facts and came out of his reverie when he noticed that she was staring at him. "Oh, uh, that's what _she_ said?" he said with an arched brow.

She gave him a piteous look. "That wasn't quite up to par with your usual wisecracks. But I suppose it will work for now."

"I'm not used so much pressure."

"Cannot perform under pressure, noted."

"I'd perform more than adequately if you'd just give me the chance," he said without thinking. He brightened a bit when he realized what he'd said. "Oh hey, I'm back."

"Now doesn't that feel better?"

"A little." He looked at something beyond Rory. "There's my lunch date."

She turned around quickly and relaxed when she saw that it was merely Sarah Steinberg. "Oh, well, I'll get out of your hair then."

"All right. Thanks for the idea."

"No problem. I'll see you Monday—probably."

"Yeah, probably. See you later, Mary."

Rory left and Tristan stood up to greet Sarah. He led her into the small interrogation room and they both sat down.

"Sarah, can you tell me what you did after you talked with your nephew Tuesday night?"

"I got up and went to the open bar, by my husband. And I didn't see anyone walk out to the terrace when Jason went out there."

"That's okay, that's not what I was going to ask. What did you do after you had a drink?"

"I had to use the restroom."

"Was anyone else in there?"

"Amy was. I saw her walk in a couple minutes earlier."

"Right. Do you know if she opened the window at all?"

"No. Although that reporter you were just talking to said _she_ did."

"She's pretty sure she closed it," Tristan said, thinking quickly about how he could use Rory's lie to his advantage. "But she can't quite remember whether she did or not. Can you recall? We're getting everyone's fingerprints to see whose match."

"The reporter must have left it open. Because I was cold when I went in, so I closed it."

"You did?"

"Yes."

"And Amy was in there when you went in?"

"That's what I said. Do you think she may have snuck out?"

"What?"

"Do you think Amy snuck out the window after I left?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I spoke with her mother this week and she mentioned it."

"Really? I wasn't sure if your two families were on speaking terms."

"We've spoken some."

"I see. Now, this is important, when were you in the restroom? Was it when word was starting to spread about Jason or about ten minutes before?"

"It was when someone found him. I came out when things were getting chaotic."

"And you're sure Amy was in there still, when you left?"

"Yes."

"Mm-hmm. Excuse me," Tristan said as he stood up and walked out of the room. Mark was watching at the window. They stood next to each other and looked in the room for a moment. "How long have you been watching?"

"Long enough to be confused," Mark answered.

"Yup. She didn't even need my help to twist that up."

"Since when did Lois Lane open the window?"

"She didn't. She only told _her_ that," Tristan answered, nodding at the woman in the room.

"Ah." They stood in thought for a while longer.

"Well, how about you take a crack at her before you get her fingerprints. We'll still have to let her go. If her prints match, ask the lab where they were," Tristan said, moving his hands as though he was opening and closing a window. "I'm going to go upstairs and ask Jacobs for a subpoena—or two."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory was sitting on her couch that evening, papers spread out on her coffee table. She was going over everything from the last two weeks and her head was starting to hurt. Something just wasn't right. But she couldn't figure out what. She thought about everyone she'd spoken with, but she didn't know who to trust. She had an idea, but wasn't so sure if she had the guts to go through with it. She was contemplating the merits of her plan when there was a knock at the door. She got up to answer and found Lucy and Olivia in the hallway.

"Hey girls, come in," she said with a smile, moving out of the way so they could come in and sit in her living room.

"We're thinking about going out on the town tonight and were wondering if you wanted to come along. It looks like you need a break from all this work."

"Oh, I was just doing some thinking. Were you going to take your car, Lucy?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I was thinking about borrowing it, but don't worry about it."

"Are you sure? Because we could always take the subway or a cab. Both would make a designated driver unnecessary."

"No, that's okay. I have a Plan B."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm not sure yet. But thanks for the offer to go out."

"Don't work too hard."

"I won't, I promise."

"Hey," Olivia started, "were you with a guy Wednesday night?"

"Oh, uh, yeah. That was just an old friend. I told him about my piece in _The New Yorker _and he wanted to read it."

"Ah. Well, you're sure you don't want to come out with us?" Olivia asked. "We're _really_ fun."

"I know you are. And yes, I'm sure. But thanks, really."

After the two women were gone, Rory stared at her coffee table for a couple minutes, wondering if her scheme was stupid. She took a deep breath and picked up her cell phone. She found the name she was looking for and dialed.

"Hello?"

"Tristan, hi. It's me—Rory," she started.

"I know. Your name popped up. What is it?"

"Well, I've been thinking and thinking about everything with this case and something is fishy, really fishy," she rambled. "And I have a feeling."

"A feeling?"

"Yes, a feeling. I want to go to Tenth Avenue."

"What for?"

"I don't know. I just want to sit and wait to see if anything happens—anything suspicious."

"So, what, you want to do a stake out?"

"Kind of."

"Why are you calling _me_ about this?"

"Well, I was wondering if you wanted to come along."

"To stake out Tenth Avenue," he stated dryly.

"Yes." Rory could practically hear the wheels turning in Tristan's head over the phone. She wondered if he was deciding if it was a stupid idea. Or whether or not he could keep his hands to himself.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Doll Face. But your intuition isn't going to stand up in a court of law."

"I know. But maybe we'll see something sinister go down. You don't have to go along, if you have something else you're doing. I know it _is_ Friday night."

There was a pause as he thought some more. Finally, he sighed heavily. "All right. Do you need a ride?"

"A ride would be swell."

"Fine, I'll be right over."

"Okay, I'll see you soon."

Rory went into her bedroom and changed her clothes, putting on a black shirt with a pair of jeans. She went back to the living room and placed her notes and research in a couple of file folders. She stuffed everything in her purse. After fifteen minutes had gone by, there was a buzz on the intercom next to the door.

She hurried over to it and pressed the button. "Hello?"

"Hey, I'm here," Tristan answered.

"I'll be right down." She put on a jacket and picked up her purse before leaving the apartment. When she got outside, she found Tristan leaning on the wall next to the door. He had on jeans and a grey T-shirt under a suit jacket. "Do you wear a blazer everywhere you go?" she asked him.

He looked down at himself and shrugged. He took off the jacket to reveal a black long sleeve shirt under the short sleeve grey one. "Better?"

"Do you ever think about wearing more color?" she inquired as he walked around his car and unlocked the doors.

"I left my amazing Technicolor dream coat in my closet," he answered wryly. "Plus, I think you provide enough color in my life."

"What would you do without me?" she asked as she got into the car.

"Probably get more sleep at night," he grumbled to himself.

"You had other plans tonight, didn't you?" she asked when they were both in the Camaro.

"Don't worry about it."

"No, really, did you have other things you were doing?"

"I said don't worry about it," he said, more warningly.

"You were on a date, weren't you?" she went on, somewhat accusingly.

"Do you have a hearing problem?"

"If you had something else to do, you should have said no. I don't want to make you do something you don't want to do."

"Rory, drop it. I don't do things I don't want to do."

"You didn't want to go to Hartford this week, but you did _that_."

"That was different. Doesn't your family ever make you do things you don't feel like doing?"

"Well, yeah, but—"

"Then forget it. If I'm here, it's because I chose to be. End of story."

"Fine." Neither said anything for a while as Tristan drove them in the direction of Tenth Avenue. "So, was it a second date?"

"What?" he asked incredulously.

"You had a date last Saturday. Was it the same girl?"

"No."

"Oh."

Several more minutes went by before Tristan felt like talking again. "Question. Do you have a car?"

"Uh, no. Not since I've been in the city. I used to have a Prius. But my grandparents didn't want me driving it after Toyota had problems with their breaks a few years ago."

"You mean you didn't want to rear-end someone?"

"Not if it could be avoided. Why do you ask about my transportation?"

"I assume you weren't planning on keeping watch in the bushes. So, I see why you asked me to join you. You needed a car."

"Not exactly. My friend has a car I could have borrowed. But I thought police reinforcements wouldn't be a bad idea. You know, if something does happen. And I mean, I like your car. It's no Prius, but it's nice."

"Thanks, I like it too. And I knew it wasn't a Prius when I bought it. Driving a Toyota wasn't very American of you."

"That's true. I didn't know you were so patriotic."

"Well, Uncle Sam and I, we're like this," he said, crossing his fingers.

"Got it. But your car wasn't the only reason I asked you to do this tonight. I wanted to talk to you."

"About what?"

"About my investigation," Rory said as Tristan parked on Tenth Avenue where they could watch both Steinberg houses.

"What investigation?"

"The one I did on you," she answered, taking out one of her folders.

"Do you have a _file_ on me?" he asked in disbelief.

"Maybe."

"That has my name on it, let me see it," he exclaimed as he reached over.

But Rory held the file away. "I'll tell you what I found, calm down. I'll even give you the chance to defend yourself, if need be. And I'm sure you'll do great if it comes to that."

He put his hand back down and sulked a little. "Fine. Did you find sufficient answers to your questions?"

"I did. Albeit my research also raised some questions I didn't know I had along the way."

"Well, let's see what you've got then."

"To start with, I had to go back to nineteen eighty-four to figure out your parents' names. Did you know how little information birth announcements had in the eighties? It didn't even have your name. It only said that a DuGrey couple had a boy on July thirteenth and I assumed it was you."

"So you figured out that I'm a boy? You're blowing me away with your mad mystery solving skills."

"I just needed to find your parents' names, so then I could really get down to work. Because let's face it, your deviant behavior had to have been the result of issues at home."

"Clearly."

"Anyway, there were a lot of articles about your dad. He's a lawyer?"

"Correct."

"His name was in the paper a lot. He defended a lot of big corporations."

"Right again—_someone_ has to defend those white collar criminals."

"So I thought that maybe he was gone from home a lot."

"Fairly often."

"And that all sounds pretty _Cats in the Cradle_. But those articles spanned several years, so it wouldn't make sense for you to all of a sudden act out, if you were used to that your whole life."

"You have a different theory then?"

"I did after I saw the stuff about your parents' divorce."

"There you have it."

"I thought I did."

"You were wrong?"

"Yeah, and I know, mark the day down."

"I will later. Well, hit me with it, Nancy Drew."

"You really don't want to just tell me?"

"And take the big reveal away from you? You've clearly done a lot of work here."

"All right. A nasty divorce sounds hard on a kid, sure. But then I saw that they both remarried."

Tristan shrugged his shoulders. "It happens."

"But for them it happened like five minutes before the ink dried on the divorce papers. They both moved on remarkably fast and it was all in two thousand and one, Tristan."

"You don't have to remind me of the year," he said tonelessly. "There was someone younger for him, someone wealthier for her, and military school for me. Everyone wins. But it straightened me out, so it did its job."

"That's kind of lame."

"I know. My parents _are_ lame."

"No, I was talking about you."

"What about me?"

"You're not the only one whose parents split. I'm not impressed as for as motives go. Paris had parental problems, but she didn't make trouble."

"No, she didn't get _into_ trouble, but didn't she _make_ some trouble by spreading a rumor about you and a teacher?"

"No. It was about my mother and a teacher."

"Same thing."

"It is _not_."

"Either way, when it was my turn to go though it, I gave everyone at school something else to talk about. We all have our coping mechanisms. Sorry if it wasn't a good reason in your opinion. No one said motives had to be good."

"I guess that's true. Anyway, that's not all I found. I saw a few more birth announcements, you have some half siblings."

"Do I? I don't really keep track."

"What do you mean?" she asked, turning to him.

He took his eyes off the houses and looked at her. "I don't go around there much—to Hartford. I go sometimes to see my grandfather, obviously, but that's it. My parents and I don't speak to each other, if we can help it."

"Boo hoo," Rory said as she looked back outside.

"Sorry?"

She turned back to him. "I said boo hoo. I've heard it all, as far as baggage with parents go. _My_ dad wasn't around when I was going up. _He_ had a bad relationship with his father. My mom has had issues with her parents since—probably since she was born. Paris's parents suck. If I had a nickel for every kid born with a silver spoon in their mouth who doesn't get along with their parents, I'd be rich."

"It sounds like you couldn't quite pay for a game of Pinball, actually," he countered. "And weren't _you_ born with a silver spoon, too? You have a trust fund and went to expensive schools."

"I was and I wasn't. My mother was born into it, so I was by extension. But she left that world, so I wasn't raised in it. And okay, I _have_ spent enough time with my grandparents to know that kind of life is terrible. They have their own big plans and try to control everything—"

"They _do_."

"And they're manipulative—"

"They _are_."

"And I know that Tolstoy said every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. But if you're from a socially prominent family, the unhappiness is usually for the same reason. It seems like everyone either ends up grudgingly accepting their fate or breaking free."

"Well, I broke free."

"Then good for you." There was a short lull before Rory spoke again. "Sorry if I sounded harsh. I've always been close to my mom. The very few exceptions when we weren't were really hard for both of us."

"Now _that's_ weird."

"I don't know how you just don't speak to your parents at all."

"It's actually not too hard when you live in a different state. It's not like they want to see me anyway."

"You're their kid, why wouldn't they want to see you?"

"I just remind them of some mistake they made thirty years ago. Besides, they both have do-over families to make them happy."

"But you're still their son," Rory protested.

He shrugged again. "Son, disappointment. The two are pretty much synonymous."

"What have you done to disappoint them?" she asked doubtfully.

"You mean besides embarrassing them by committing a felony? Shipping me off to North Carolina was actually one of the last things they ever agreed on."

"But that was a long time ago. Surely they're over it by now."

"How many privileged brats do you know who have grown up to carry around a lethal weapon?"

"Just the one," she admitted.

"Exactly. After I went to the wrong school, I chose the wrong career—not everyone finds it respectable. So you see. I've been a big let down for a pretty long time now."

"I am sorry you don't have relationships with them, Tristan," Rory said honestly.

"It's okay, I can take it. So, finish it up, you probably know more about them at this point than I do. Did you find anything else?"

"I did. But it was just some stuff about you."

"Oh. Anything interesting?"

"Well, I didn't find any arrests or convictions. So I assumed you successfully stayed out of trouble."

"Or my public record has been expunged, like yours," he joked, but she looked at him seriously, so he amended his answer. "I've been a good boy."

"Anyway, there was a boring blurb in the paper about you starting Harvard after graduating military school."

"That does sound boring," he said with a grin. "What did I study there? You've known all week, at least."

"This is true. I'm _very_ thorough in my research. It was history and government."

"Yes it was."

"Ah, government," she said and sighed nostalgically. "I participated in government once—it was a lifetime ago, at least—but I was student body vice president, at some else's insistence. And she only tried to impeach me the one time."

Tristan smirked a little. "That sounds like it would have been a lot like the Reign of Terror."

"Oh, no. She didn't pull a Robespierre until she was the editor of the _Yale Daily News_. That was when things got scary."

"I can imagine."

"No, I don't think you really can unless you've experienced it. There was a coup and I was named her successor as a result."

"Congratulations—both for being editor and for surviving. Paris probably had to restrain herself from killing you in your sleep."

"Probably. But she settled with kicking me out of the apartment."

"Bummer. Hey, speaking of Paris, I got an e-mail from her this week."

"Huh, out of the blue? That's weird."

"I know. Especially since she had no way of knowing where I live or what I do. Much less where I work."

"Did I mention how weird that all is? Because it's _weird_ that she would know that."

"Oh, I know. I thought it was quite a coincidence that she contacted me shortly after I ran into you."

"That _is_ a weird coincidence."

"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Me? No, of course not," Rory said innocently as she shook her head—before she cringed guiltily. "I'm lying."

"I know."

"She just asked for your information. She was wondering if you've really grown up."

"And?"

"I've been leaning toward yes."

"I guess it had to happen some time."

"I suppose."

"You know, when I was at Harvard, it could be said that I spent a little too much time in the Kennedy School of Government building—they offer criminal justice classes."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Princeton doesn't offer any."

"Oh?"

"No, neither does Yale."

"Would Princeton happen to be the 'right' school? That's where your dad went."

"That is correct. You really _are_ thorough."

"Harvard is definitely better than Princeton."

He nodded. "Thank you for finally admitting that."

She smiled. "No problem. I'd even go so far as to say that it's the dollar store of Ivy League schools."

He grinned back at her. "Well, I appreciate the comparison."

"I'm here to please."

"So," he said wearily. "Is there anything else you feel the need to bring up?"

She considered the question thoughtfully for a moment before closing the file and answering. "Well, I actually want to give you the option to acknowledge or include any additional details," she replied slowly. "Do you have any . . . closing arguments you'd like to make?"

His eyes rested on the closed file folder as he mulled over her offer. He looked up at her with an appreciative smile and shook his head when he answered. "No."

"You believe I've uncovered all the particulars?"

"I am absolutely certain you have. You conducted a meticulous investigation. I'm confident you now know all my secrets—and definitely more than most," he said cautiously. "You pointed out the events that I consider noteworthy. Thank you for the offer though."

Rory looked back at him calmly. "Okay then. And you're welcome. But I don't think I know _all_ your secrets."

"I don't have a wife and kids hidden away in New Jersey or anything."

"Sure."

"You found everything. I'd be willing to bet you even got your hands on a picture of me in a uniform."

She smiled deviously. "I did find one. And don't worry, you made it look good."

"That is true," he said self-assuredly.

"Well, I have nothing further, so I declare this case closed."

"Sounds good to me."

They lapsed into silence for some time, just looking down the street at the two houses.

"You know, half siblings aren't so bad. I have a couple," Rory commented.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, a sister and a brother. Plus, a step-sister."

"While I'm happy for you, that your parents can incorporate you in their new families, it's okay that mine don't. I'm grown, I don't need them. I can live on my own just fine."

"If you say so, tough guy."

"I do say so."

They continued to gaze down the street without talking.

"This isn't exactly how I spend most of my Friday nights," Tristan stated after a while.

"I'm sorry you cancelled your date just to sit here with me, my feeling might be wrong after all."

He shrugged his shoulders. "It doesn't matter. She'd probably just bore me with details from the latest season of _Dancing with the Stars_."

"Why waste your time with someone if you know you won't be interested in what she has to say?" Rory asked, starting to feel that annoying twang of jealousy again, not to mention frustration with her companion.

"I'm usually okay with the way it ends," he answered.

"You're disgusting," she retorted.

"No, I'm just an adult male, not that I recall asking your opinion. And for the record, I'm not quite the man-whore I'm sure you think I am. I may have some lothario-like tendencies, but Byron and Shaw won't be writing any works of literature about me."

"Well sure, it'd be hard for dead people to do that."

"I meant because I'm not Don Juan. Just because there are fifty-two weeks in a year, it doesn't mean I've seen the same number of women."

"Some get more than one date?"

"No. Some weekends I stay in," he answered seriously.

"Wouldn't you rather go to dinner with someone you could actually spend more than one night with? You _could_ enjoy a person's company in settings other than your bedroom—sorry, her bedroom."

"That sounds a lot like a girlfriend."

"Well, yeah, but wouldn't it be less work?"

"How do you figure?"

"You'd have a standing date. You wouldn't have to find a new girl every week. You could know who you're going to be with Friday night without wondering on Tuesday."

"It's not hard for me."

"That's what _she_ said," Rory said snidely.

"It's not difficult to find girls willing to spend a night with me," he amended without acknowledging her insult.

"But it obviously _is_ difficult to find someone you would want to have breakfast with the next morning."

He sighed impatiently. "What makes you so sure _they'd_ want to stick around that long?" Rory gasped at this and he looked at her. "What?"

"Oh my God, you're afraid of _rejection_."

"No I'm not. Did you hear me when I said I don't have problems finding women?"

"Finding them, sure. But you feel rejected by your parents, so now you don't commit to any one person because you're afraid she'll discard you, too, the way they did."

"That's crazy."

"It is not. It makes complete sense. That's why you only date girls who need to take a trip down the yellow brick road. You have one night of fun without any chance of getting attached and then leave before they do. You act so tough and detached, but you're really hiding the fact that you're vulnerable."

"I am _not,_" Tristan exclaimed in annoyance. "So you can stop psycho-analyzing me, Freud."

"You are too. If not, then why don't you pick one girl? One whose company you actually enjoy and can carry on a real conversation with?"

"So now I need a girlfriend _and_ she has to be smart?"

"It wouldn't kill you."

"It might."

"Well if it does, I won't have any trouble solving the mystery."

"So, you went to Yale, does that make _you_ smart?" he threw back at her.

She looked at him and hoped he couldn't hear her heart beating—it seemed to be thumping louder all of a sudden. "In some circles, I might be considered somewhat bright."

He nodded his head once, looking outside as Rory plowed on. "But I might be biased about all this. I'm terrible on dates with guys I don't know very well—I have no idea what to talk about. And I'm definitely not programmed to date more than one person at a time. I'm either in or out. There's no half way with me."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Uh, sure."

"I'm not really sure how to ask you this," he said slowly.

"Then just ask," she instructed, her thumping heart sped up when he looked at her.

"Rory?"

"Yes?"

"Have we had this conversation before? At least part of it? Because it feels eerily similar to one I've had already."

She swallowed before she answered. "Well, it evidently didn't sink in the first time," she said, recovering.

"Possibly because the advice you gave was awful."

"It was _not_."

"You told me to date Paris."

"Okay, one might say that I went too far in that suggestion."

"_One_ might say? I can think of three people that it didn't work out so well for."

"Fine. But I still stand by the first part. You're intelligent—and at this point, _very_ well educated. You ought to spend your time with someone who can appreciate that and keep up."

"Maybe."

"No, not _maybe_," she retorted impatiently. "You _do. _Don't let your parents define your sense of worth. For someone with such a large ego, you sure carry around a decent level of self-loathing."

"I guess overcompensating balances me out."

"I don't know about _that_."

It was a couple minutes before Tristan spoke again. "Smart girls can be just as dense as the regular ones," he muttered sourly.

"What do you mean?" she asked with a frown.

"I mean that once a _smart_ _girl_ gave me not-entirely-bad-advice, but wasn't quite sharp enough to figure out which _smart_ _girl_ I wanted to date," he explained pointedly.

Rory thought about that for a moment. Comprehension dawned, but guilt did not. "And if she had figured it out—and had any interest at all—what would a date with sixteen-year-old-Tristan have looked like? Paint me a picture."

He pondered on this for a few seconds before replying. "I'd try to impress her by going to an expensive restaurant—"

"She probably wasn't interested in extravagant things," Rory interjected.

"Next, we'd go to a movie," he continued.

"You probably had terrible taste in movies back then," she interrupted again.

Tristan was getting annoyed with her. "And the night would most likely have ended with me doing a performance of that song John Travolta sings after Olivia Newton-John leaves him stranded at the drive-in."

"I appreciate your brutal honestly," Rory started. "Now, here's a truth you couldn't get through your hard head back then. _That_ girl wasn't at all interested in that stuff with you—not in high school. You made a bad first impression and never improved on it much."

"And no one gets a second first impression," he added dejectedly.

"No," she agreed forcefully. "But everyone _does_ grow up."

"Do they?"

"Yes. And in doing so, some provide evidence that they've changed their character—for the better," Rory said before going on, quieter. "And others can change their mind as a result."

Neither said anything after that. Both sat in silent reverie. They sat in the Camaro until both of their heads fell back on their seats and their eyelids dropped as they fell asleep.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory woke up feeling drowsy the next morning. She rubbed her eyes and wondered where she was. She massaged her neck and turned to Tristan, who was still asleep. She was too tired to do anything but sit. She looked down the street and saw that the two Steinberg houses were still looking unsuspecting. She wasn't sure how much time went by before someone came out of Sarah and Roman's house. It was their younger son, who was high school age. The brown haired boy was carrying a red purse. Odd, Rory thought. Then she gasped when she realized whose purse it was. She didn't move her eyes from the boy as she hit Tristan on the shoulder roughly.

"Tristan," she hissed.

He snatched her wrist with quick reflexes. She looked over, startled.

"Stop."

"Sorry, look," she said, nodding over at the boy.

"Is that Roman's kid?"

"Yes."

"I didn't know he swung that way."

"What?"

"He has a purse. Most straight guys don't carry them around. At least, _I_ don't."

"That isn't his," she reprimanded as the boy rang the bell at his aunt's house. Amy came to the door and took it. "I saw it sitting on a table in their foyer Wednesday. Sarah said she picked it up at the reception Tuesday night because Ann or Amy forgot it."

"It took her four days to get it back? They live two doors away."

"I know. Go see what's in it," Rory eagerly instructed.

"What?"

"Yeah. That's suspicious, don't you think? That it took so long to get it back."

"Maybe she just forgot."

"Aren't you curious about what's in it?"

"Curiosity killed the cat, you know."

"Well, give me a whip and call me Catwoman, because I'm curious."

"Kinky."

"Come on, don't you want to know what's in that purse, especially since it's been sitting in someone else's house since the night someone was killed?"

"Maybe a little, since you keep going on about it."

"Then get in there."

Tristan looked at Rory like she was off her rocker. "I can't."

"What are you talking about? Just wave that badge and go on in."

"It doesn't work like that. I can speed though red lights and carry a concealed weapon, but people have a legal right not to let me barge into their homes."

"Why?"

"Well, due process, mostly. Surely you know this."

"Yes, but it's still stupid."

"Blame King John. That's what I usually do in situations like this. He's the one who signed the Magna Carta."

"Oh, I will be blaming him all right. Okay, what if you got invited in?"

"What, like a vampire?"

"Yes, just like a vampire."

"I'm not sure they'd be happy to see me at this point."

"Can you get a search warrant?"

"Uh, on what grounds?"

"That's for you to figure out. I'm just spit-balling here."

"I could maybe call a judge I know."

"Would that be going over Jacobs' head, would he be mad at you?"

"Like I care. I do what I want."

"Oh. Right. Hey, what if _I_ go in?" Rory asked. "You won't need a warrant if I don't find anything worth searching for."

"How are _you_ going to go in?"

"I could say I'm writing an article and want an interview . . . because I don't think Amy is guilty and I want her point of view. I can get on her good side by sympathizing with her."

"But how would you find out what's in her bag?"

"I don't know, I'll improvise. What's a good reason to get into someone else's purse?"

"If you're mugging them?"

"I don't think that will work."

"Neither do I."

"I'll think of something. Just let me go in."

"Fine."

Rory took her own purse and got out of the car. Tristan watched her as she went up to Ann's house and rang the bell. Amy answered and listened to what Rory had to say. She must have bought it, because she let Rory into the house.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Not long after Rory went into the house, Tristan's phone rang. He saw her name on the caller ID before he answered.

"Hello?"

"Okay, you need to come in now," Rory told him hurriedly.

"What is it?"

"You should come and see."

"Did you really get into her purse?" he asked in wonder.

"Sure, it was easy. I just innocently asked for some gum. Now get in here. Amy just went to call her mom to come home. Oh, maybe you should wait a few minutes, so it doesn't seem like you're waiting right outside."

"You think?" Tristan asked sarcastically. He waited for Ann to return home before he got out of his car and walked up to the house.

After he rang the bell, Ann answered, looking worried. "Detective, come in, come in."

Tristan went into the house. He was led to the kitchen, where Rory was sitting with Amy. The blonde woman looked extremely nervous. The purse was sitting in the center of the table.

"What did you need me to see?" he asked.

It looked like Amy didn't know what to say, so Rory spoke up for her. "Amy's purse was returned to her this morning and there's an item that wasn't in it before."

"Oh, all right. Let me see," Tristan answered, pulling the red bag to him. He looked inside and a perplexed expression overtook his features. "That looks like a Smith and Wesson," he commented.

"What's that?" Ann asked.

"A gun. It's actually the same kind your husband was killed with last week."

"Oh my God."

"I don't own any guns!" Amy exclaimed in a panic. "I haven't even seen my purse since . . . I guess Tuesday night. I forgot about it. My cousin just brought it over. I didn't even know what was in there until just now, I swear."

"You think someone is trying to set you up?"

"I guess. I just know I didn't do anything and that _that_ isn't mine."

"Uh, Detective," Rory started, "could I see you in the next room?"

"Sure," he answered, he took the purse with him as they stepped into the living room.

"She's telling the truth. That wasn't in there when I saw it at Sarah's Wednesday."

"How do you know?"

"Because it was sitting open. I glanced in and only saw regular purse stuff. You don't have to arrest her, do you?"

Tristan sighed and went back into the next room. Rory followed.

"I'm going to have to take your bag to the police station to see if this gun killed your father. There's a chance that it isn't. But don't get any ideas about skipping town."

Amy had wide eyes and shook her head back and forth. "I'm not going to leave the house."

"Good."

He started to leave and Rory was going to follow again, but remembered her story. "We can talk another time," she said as she heard Tristan walk out the door. Before scampering off behind him, she added, "It might not be a bad idea to get a lawyer."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"I can't believe it," Tristan said in awe as he drove them to the twenty-first precinct.

"I know. I got lucky with that one."

"You got _really_ lucky."

"I told you I would be helpful. I _told_ you."

"You told me," he agreed, shaking his head in disbelief.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

When Tristan and Rory arrived at the precinct, Tristan had the gun sent to ballistics. Rory waited while he spoke with the captain and the prosecutor.

"Now what?" Rory asked him when he was through.

"Now we wait for the results. It'll probably take a couple of days—they're busy down at the lab, plus tomorrow's Sunday," he answered. "I'm hungry, let's go get some breakfast."

"What?" she asked in surprise.

"You know, go eat food so we can break our fast," he explained, looking at his watch. "Then again, it might be brunch at this point."

"Okay, sure. Brunch sounds good, I'm starving," she answered as they headed for the door.

Ten minutes later they were seated at a booth next to the window at the same corner café they'd been at the previous Wednesday. They were looking over their menus when their waitress brought them coffee.

"You can just leave the pot here," Rory told the woman.

Tristan glanced up at her. "Are you going to drink all that? I'm only going to have a couple cups."

"Yes, I am, no worries," she answered.

"Okay then." He closed his menu when he'd made his decision and put some cream and sugar in his coffee. "Cream?"

She looked up. "No. I like my coffee black, like my men."

Tristan gave her a quizzical look. "_Airplane!_?"

"Yes. And I'll actually take some cream," she said.

"Just don't call me Shirley," he said as he handed over the tiny pitcher of white liquid.

The waitress returned and they placed their orders. Rory rolled her head around and rubbed her neck. "Your car doesn't make a good bed."

"No, but it makes a good car."

"I hadn't realized we were going to spend the night."

"Neither did I. But it worked out. We got the elusive smoking gun. Or at least, we may have."

"True."

After a few more minutes, their food came and conversation lulled as they ate. When Rory was half finished with her French toast, she spoke up. "I stole a yacht," she said before she took a sip of her coffee.

Tristan looked up from his waffles, perplexed. "What?"

"I stole a yacht," she repeated. "That's why I was arrested."

"You shouldn't have told me, grand-theft yachting was going to be my next guess."

"Sure it was," she said ironically. "Anyway, I didn't just _feel_ like stealing it."

"What was your reason? It better be good."

"I'm not sure that it was. I was very upset after Mitchum Huntzburger told me that I didn't have what it took to be a journalist. So I stole a yacht with his son—who was my boyfriend at the time."

"Tell me more, tell me more. Like, did he have a car?" he asked dryly.

"Yes—a Porsche."

Tristan tilted his head at this, not amused. "_You_ dated someone with a sports car?"

"Yes, in college. He'll inherit the family newspaper business someday—well, I think. I'm actually not sure any more—he used to have a large trust fund, too."

"I was clearly ahead of my time," Tristan commented in what could be considered a thinly veiled sulk.

"You were the Charlotte Bronte of our class," she agreed dryly.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you'd go for a guy with a Porsche and a trust fund now, what with _mine_ both being history."

"Why? Did you crash the car and gamble away your trust fund?"

"If only. After I got into trouble in high school, my father changed the terms to make sure I would finish college, and within a certain number of years. It's been a contingent trust for ages now. When I told him what I was going to be when I finished school, he changed the terms again. He didn't leave any loopholes, either. He's a lawyer, remember. My grandfather has been trying to get him to change his mind, but my dad is pretty stubborn. I guess that's where I get it from."

"_I_ get it from my mother. So you're living off of a cop's salary?"

"Detectives earn more. And any investments made by family members in my name are legally mine. But other than that, yes."

"Was that why you had to go to Connecticut last week?" Rory asked.

"It wasn't the only reason, but it came up," he said. "Grandpa keeps trying to play the go-between, as though we'll ever negotiate successfully. One day he'll figure out it's all for naught. I don't really care anymore and it's not like two equally headstrong men are going to suddenly play nice. In fact, that's probably the reason I can't take my gun into the house when I go there."

"That seems like a fair assessment."

"As much as my grandfather tries to persuade me to . . . compromise, I just can't bring myself to do anything about it. I complied with the original terms and in doing so, I've come as close to the middle ground as I'm ever going to get," Tristan explained before going on. "I accepted a long time ago that I'm not going to see that money. And I it made clear when I left the Porsche sitting in the old man's drive way. The old man being by dad, not my grandfather—though he _is_ old. Anyway, I wasn't going to be bought."

"I see. Was that when you got your current mode of transportation?"

"It was—almost to the day, in fact. I paid for it myself. I also got a loan from my grandfather to pay for the last of my schooling. How's that for breaking free?" he asked dryly as they continued to eat.

"It sounds like you sufficiently cut the umbilical cord."

"Mm-hmm. So, whatever happened with _your_ Porsche guy?"

"Well, he _had_ to turn in his car, when he made the break. But as for us as a couple, it just didn't work out in the end. In my experiences, when I don't tell a guy what he wants to hear, he decides he'd rather be alone."

"Some men are fickle that way."

"Apparently."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

After they finished eating their meal and Tristan paid, they went back to his car so he could drive Rory home. They rode without talking for several minutes before Tristan broke the silence.

"You're awfully quiet," he said.

"Being quiet isn't a crime now, is it?" she said shortly.

"No, it was just an observation. I can observe, can't I?"

"Do whatever you want, what do I care?"

"Are you sulking?"

"No, why would I be sulking?"

"I don't know, but you definitely sound hostile all of a sudden."

"I'm not hostile," she snapped.

"Well, you're being snippy."

"I can be _snippy_ if I want to be _snippy_," she said testily. "Geez, leave me alone. You drive me up the wall."

"That doesn't have to be a bad thing," he leered.

She glared at him. "You see? That there."

"Yesterday you indicated you _wanted_ me to make comments like that, because it's weird when I don't. It didn't make any sense—at all, but there you go. Now, I say the kind of thing you want me to say and you're mad."

"Well, I can be mad at you if I want to be mad at you. It's my prerogative."

"What's your problem?" he asked, getting annoyed himself.

"_You_ are my problem."

"I didn't even do anything!"

"Yes you did. You _showed up_ two weeks ago," she retorted. "And ever since then, _I_ have gone crazy."

"I'm not arguing with that, but how is it _my_ fault?"

"Because! You make smart-ass comments and get on my nerves."

"Well, you're getting on _my_ nerves. I always do those things, you said it's who I am," he exclaimed as he parked the car at the art studio. They both got out and headed for the door next to the gallery.

"What are you doing?" she demanded angrily.

"I'm walking you upstairs. I figure if I give you a couple more minutes you'll tell me what I did to make you mad."

She opened the door and they both started up the stairs as they continued to argue. "Why? So you can apologize again, since you like to do that so much? You know, I've called you a lot of things, but I never pegged you as stupid until about Wednesday night."

"You're still mad about that? I said I was sorry about kissing you. What else am I supposed to do?"

"When was I ever mad about it? If I'm mad about anything, I'm mad that you lied to me."

"When?" He wasn't just annoyed now, but also confused.

"Thursday."

"What did I lie about Thursday?"

"You weren't sorry. You did what you wanted to do. We're not in high school any more, we're twenty-eight."

"I'm twenty-nine."

"I am too. Don't look at me like I'm crazy, it's a new twenty-nine, I'm not used to saying it. Plus, I lost track a few years ago, people stopped asking. Geez, thanks for reminding me how close to thirty I am."

"You've digressed," he said impatiently.

They had stopped in front of her door. Rory was unsuccessfully digging through her purse for her keys. "Right, what was I saying?"

"I think you were at me being stupid and a liar."

"Right. I know you fell through the cracks and were experiencing some rejection in high school—"

"Stop saying that. I'm not afraid of rejection, you silly woman," he interjected.

Rory continued as though he hadn't. "And I'm sorry if I added to that, but you _were_ ahead of your time. Plus, it's not like you were ever the Great Communicator."

"So I wasn't responsible for the Iran-Contra Affair, that's not such a horrible thing," he replied. "What does this have to do with anything? You aren't making any sense."

"Of course I'm not making any sense. This whole thing doesn't make any sense—_that's_ why I'm mad! We are adultsnow. Grown ups. We can act like it. You didn't have to come up with an excuse for doing what you _wanted_ to do," she seethed.

"You _are_ crazy. What are you talking about?"

"Wednesday!"

"I said I was _sorry_. If it makes you feel any better, I've been _feeling_ stupid since then."

"Well great, I'm crazy and you're stupid. We're quite a pair."

"I'm still not following how the two are related."

"They're related because I kissed you _back_, you moron! I must be crazy for wanting to, but there you go." She glared at him and he glowered back. "_You _are the only one who's dense around here," she retorted defiantly and poked him in the chest to emphasize her point.

He grabbed her wrist tightly to stop her from poking him again. "Wait—"

"I didn't ask you to apologize, did I?"

"No—"

"Then why _did_ you?" she demanded crossly.

"Mostly because I didn't know you weren't immune until very recently."

"Immune to _what_?"

"Not to what, to whom."

"Fine, I'm not immune to _whom_?" she asked angrily.

"To _me_—evidently," Tristan answered. "Now, I need to go home and process this, because it's all very new. I also need some Tylenol for the headache you're currently responsible for." He let her wrist go—somewhat roughly—and turned before she could respond.

She thought as quickly as she could before he got to the stairs. "Well, you've been giving _me_ a headache for days now!"

"Good one—very witty," he said without turning around or stopping.

She watched for a moment as he disappeared down the steps before she turned the door knob. She realized that she hadn't unlocked the door yet and fumbled with her keys some more.


	7. What Do You Want to Be

**Title**: Contraband

**Chapter ****7**: What Do You Want to Be

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

_The world is round and the place which may seem like the end may also be the beginning. __–Ivy Baker Priest_

**What Do You Want to Be**

Tristan looked across the desks as Mark sat his phone down. "Well, you did it. That gun was the one that killed Daniel Steinberg."

"Just as I was hoping," Tristan said.

"It isn't registered to anyone though. Now tell me again how you found it, because I still don't think I'm getting it."

"I already told you. Rory was at Ann's house, interviewing Amy for an article and they found the gun in Amy's purse."

"So they called you."

"Yes. And okay, Rory and I were keeping watch on Tenth Avenue to see if anything suspicious happened. And something did happen. We got lucky."

"How lucky?" Mark dryly asked with a raised brow.

"Lucky enough to find a murder weapon—obviously."

"How long were you keeping watch?"

"What?"

"How long were you two keeping watch?"

"Oh, uh, a while."

"Right."

"You know, we should leave," Tristan said, standing up. "We need to ask Amy some questions. I don't think it was her gun."

Both men walked to the elevator.

"Why do you think it wasn't hers?"

"Because Rory saw her purse open when it was at Roman and Sarah's house four days earlier and it wasn't in there then. Someone from their house put it in there before having it returned."

"Ah, so you're friend is speaking on the behalf of a suspect now."

"It's not like she's lying."

"No, she hasn't done _that_ yet," Mark said ironically as they stepped off the elevator and walked outside to Tristan's car.

"I think this time is different. Plus, her lie about the window worked to our advantage."

"I guess that's true."

"I think she might not hate me as much as I thought," Tristan said with a smirk. He started his car, but got his phone out to send a text before driving off.

"No kidding."

"Why do you say it like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you knew that already."

"Because I _did_ know that already."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I think I indicated that about a week ago and you didn't believe it."

"Oh, well I'm starting to come around to the idea."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory was at her desk, typing up her latest report, when she felt her cell phone vibrate in her pocket. She took it out and read the text.

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "I knew it."

"What is it?" Marie asked from the next desk.

"The police found the murder weapon from the original Steinberg murder."

"Where was it?"

"In his daughter's purse. I helped find it."

"What?"

"Yeah. We staked out the street and saw Amy's cousin take her bag over to her house—well, her mom's house."

"Who is we?"

"Tristan and I."

"That sounds cozy."

"Oh, it was. We fell asleep in his car, found the gun the next morning, and then we got some breakfast," Rory explained happily.

"Score. Did you get a kiss at the end of the date?"

"It wasn't a date and no. It ended with a yelling match."

"Well, that was going to be my second guess. Who won?"

"I'm not sure if there _was_ a winner, but I said what I wanted to say."

"Okay then. We can come back to that later. Now, you were with the police when the weapon was found and you're just now telling me? You better not tell Jimmy you've known for two days without saying anything."

"I couldn't say anything. It wasn't necessarily the smoking gun."

"That's just a technicality."

"It wasn't confirmed until just now. I couldn't say anything. My hands were tied."

"It sounds like you're doing someone a favor."

"I'm not doing any favors. I was just waiting until the right time. I know the police weren't ready to release that information before. Now I can. But I'm going to leave out the part about where it was found."

"How considerate of you."

"How am I supposed to build trust with my sources if I write things before they want it to be public?"

"Right."

"Yes, right. No one is going to tell me anything if they think I'm just after a story."

"Uh-huh."

"You still don't sound convinced."

"Oh, I'm convinced all right," Marie said before adding, "I'm convinced you're full of it."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A little later, Mark and Tristan were sitting at Ann's kitchen table. She was sitting with her daughter.

Mark started the conversation. "Amy, I'm sure you're tired of talking about Tuesday night. It was a bad night for your family, but the gun found in your purse is the one that killed your father."

"I swear, the last time I saw my purse was at the reception."

"Yes, the reception where your brother was thrown from the building."

"I didn't do that either."

"All right, we need to know more about the bag you had that night."

"Okay, what about it?" she asked nervously. "I'll tell you anything you want to know."

"Where did you put your purse during dinner?"

"I put it in the empty seat next to me."

"Was there anyone else at the table with your family?"

"Only one of my great aunts."

Ann jumped into the conversation then. "I don't think anyone was too eager to sit with us. They probably didn't know what to say."

"That's understandable. Now Amy, did you move your bag at all that night?"

"No."

"Even when you got up?"

"I didn't take it with me. It was just family there, I didn't think anyone would take it."

"Did you see it any more that night?"

"No. I didn't even think about it until a couple days later. I've been here at the house with Mom. But I needed some money and couldn't find my purse anywhere. It was the first time I'd thought about it."

"So, you didn't see it again until your cousin brought it to you?"

"Yes. Even then, I just sat it on the table. I didn't know what was in it until that reporter came for an interview. She asked for some gum. When I opened my purse, there was the gun."

"Where was it?" Tristan asked.

"My purse, like I said. You saw it."

"I know. But was the gun sitting towards the top of your things or buried under stuff?"

"Uh, it was just like how you saw it. It was kind of lodged in there between some of my stuff. Not really on top or under. Just stuck in."

"And did you move it at all before I got here?"

"No. I didn't even touch it. That reporter told me not to touch it."

Tristan faintly smiled to himself. "Tell us again where you were the morning your father was killed," he requested.

"I was sleeping until eight thirty. I don't usually get up that late, but I hit snooze too many times. I was running around getting ready until I left."

"You left around nine ten, correct?"

"Yes."

"Your apartment has a fire escape, right?" Tristan asked.

"Yes. Why?"

"Have you ever used it?"

"Used it for what?"

"For escaping."

"No."

"But you could, if you needed?"

"Well I hope so, if there was ever a fire."

"Did you use it to escape Monday morning?"

"No," Amy answered firmly, remembering her last session of questioning with the blonde detective. "And I know, I _could_ have, technically, but I didn't."

"How have you been getting along with your aunt and uncle?"

"You mean Roman and Sarah?"

"Yes."

"Well, we used to all get along really well. We've always been pretty close, partly because we literally live close. I used to baby-sit my cousins all the time."

"What about now?"

"After Mom and Dad bought that land from Grandma, we haven't really talked so much."

"Fighting your parents' battle, then?"

"I wouldn't call it a battle. But if I'm going to pick a side, I'm going to pick my parents. Wouldn't you?"

"Uh, no," Tristan answered. "But I'm not a good person to ask about that."

"Do you know where a person could buy a gun, if they wanted one?" Mark asked.

"No. I don't know how to shoot one either. I promise, if you just look at the fingerprints on the gun, they won't be mine. Remember how my prints weren't on that windowsill in the restroom? It'll be just like that."

"Did you have gloves with you at the reception?" Tristan asked.

"No. It's only October. It's getting cold out, but I haven't needed gloves yet. You can check my jacket pocket, if you want. I only keep gloves in my coats."

"I'll take a look," Mark offered. He and Amy stood up and went to the living room closet. When he was finished, he and Tristan left the house.

"Let's go have a talk with Auntie Sarah," Tristan said as they walked down the sidewalk.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that day, early in the afternoon, Tristan was once again sitting across from Sarah Steinberg in an interrogation room.

"Do you know why you're here?" he asked the woman.

She shrugged. "Not really. I've already talked about Tuesday night three or four times. I don't know what else you expect to find out about it."

"Actually, that isn't why you're here."

"Enlighten me then."

"Why did you pick up Amy's purse Tuesday night, after the reception?"

"What?"

"Why did you pick up Amy's purse Tuesday night?" he repeated as he watched her closely.

"So we _are_ still talking about that night."

"Answer the question."

"Amy forgot it. I thought I'd pick it up for her since we live so close."

"Was she still there when you took it?"

"Of course not, she forgot it. That means she left it there after she and her mother had gone," she explained slowly.

"Right. Why did it take so long to return it to her?"

"I've been busy."

"Doing what?"

She shrugged again. "Running my household. When I remembered, I had my son take it over."

"Okay. Do you own a nine millimeter Smith and Wesson?"

"No. We don't keep guns in our house—you already looked for one, remember? People get hurt around guns."

"They sure do. Can you explain how a Smith and Wesson wound up in Amy's purse?"

"I suppose she owns a gun. It's New York. Some people think they need one for protection."

"Amy said it wasn't hers. She claims to have never seen it before."

"She must be lying."

"_Someone_ definitely is."

"I don't know anything about it," Sarah insisted.

"All right, I'll leave that alone for the time being. Can you explain why your fingerprints were on the bathroom window at the hall where the reception was held?"

"I didn't think I was here to talk about Tuesday night."

"I changed my mind, it's my prerogative. Now answer the question, why did we find your fingerprints?"

"I already told you the window was open, so I closed it."

"You _did_ say that. However, your prints were under the windowsill, too, indicating that you opened it."

"It was very hot in there when I went in."

"You didn't mention that before."

"I didn't remember."

"But now you do?"

"Yes, since you've refreshed my memory."

"I see. So it was hot in the restroom, therefore you opened the window?"

"Yes."

"And then you closed it before you left?"

"Yes."

"When you left the ladies room, word was spreading about your nephew's unfortunate demise?"

"That's right."

"One more question. Where were you Monday morning, week before last?"

"I go to the gym every morning."

"At what time?"

"I leave around seven forty-five."

"How do you get there?"

"A cab picks me up."

"What time do you get to the gym?"

"Right around eight o'clock."

"Okay," Tristan said as he stood up to exit the room.

When he had, Jacobs was waiting for him. "You know you're going to have to let her go, right?"

"But her story keeps changing," Tristan protested. "She's the one who's been lying to us."

"The fingerprints on the windowsill are still circumstantial. And as far as the gun goes, it's her word against Amy's. We have no way of knowing how long that gun was in that purse—or who put it there."

"There wasn't a gun in that bag Wednesday."

"How do you know? Did you go through it or something? Because I know you didn't have a warrant to do so."

"No, I didn't go through it. I have a source. And they say there wasn't a gun in that bag earlier this week when it was sitting in Sarah's foyer."

"Well, that's nice. But you know it's not good enough."

"You know what, go ahead and cut her loose. If she leaves town before we get more evidence, it's on you," Tristan said, somewhat threateningly. He didn't take his eyes from the prosecutor's as he called over his shoulder, "Stevenson, let's go."

"All right," Mark answered. "Where are we going?"

"The gym," Tristan said as he walked over to his chair to put on his jacket.  
"Are you trying to tell me I need to lose some weight?" Mark asked with a grin.

Tristan merely gave him a grim look.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"Now, I was walking Paul Anka yesterday afternoon, but it was raining," Lorelai said into the phone while Rory gathered her things at the end of the work day.

"So when you say you were walking Paul Anka, you mean you were driving him around in the Jeep?" Rory asked.

"Yes."

"Got it. Continue."

"Okay. I was driving Paul Anka around town. We were going by his favorite places—the town square, Miss Patty's, past Luke's."

"And when you drove by Luke's, I'm sure Paul Anka needed a fix."

"Well of course. You know how much Paul Anka appreciates a good cup of coffee."

"Yes, I do keep up with his Twitter account."

"Glad to hear, Luke doesn't think anyone pays attention to it."

"Poppy-cock. But when I think about it, I'm not sure if it was Paul Anka who needed the coffee or if it was you."

"I can't remember that detail. You might be right."

"He didn't lock you out of the Jeep when you went in to Luke's, did he?"

"Oh no, not this time," Lorelai answered reassuringly.

"All right, what happened, then?" Rory asked. She was leaning back in her chair, waiting for the end of her mother's story before she left.

"Well, after I got some coffee to go, we continued our drive. It had stopped raining by that time."

"But you were already driving, so you couldn't just walk?"

"No, then the jeep would be sitting at the diner."

"Right. So you were driving again."

"Yes. And we were close to the elementary school, which had just gotten out."

"Good timing, since you needed to pick your kid up anyway."

"Yes. And don't worry, I was not going to forget."

"I would never dream of accusing you of such a crime."

"Anyway, I turned a corner and all of a sudden, there is Mrs. Kim, with Steve and Kwan. They were crossing the street."

"Don't tell me you hit them."

"No."

"Good. Tell the boys hi for me."

"Will do. Now, they're crossing the street and when Mrs. Kim saw that it was me, I swear, she stopped and stared at me so defiantly, I felt like I was at Tiananmen Square."

Rory paused at this. "You felt like the tank?"

"Yes. And Mrs. Kim was the protester. I'm telling you, it was intense."

"It sounds like it must have been."

"Yes," Lorelai continued.

The police scanner squawked from a couple desks away and Rory tried to listen as her mother kept talking her ear off. She only got snippets of the details on the scanner.

Rory covered the mouthpiece of her phone and turned to Marie. "Did you hear what the radio just said?" she asked.

"Something about a domestic disturbance."

"Yeah, but where was it?"

"Fifty-seven hundred block of something."

"Was it Tenth Avenue? I think I may have heard Tenth Avenue."

"I think so."

"That's the block the Steinberg's live on," Rory said quickly as she stood. She uncovered the mouthpiece of her phone and cut Lorelai off. "Hey, Mom, I have to go."

"I know. That's why I called you around five, so I'd catch you as you were leaving work."

"No, something just came up. I have to go. I'll have to call you back later."

"Okay. I'll be waiting."

"All right, bye."

Rory quickly grabbed a portable scanner and left the newsroom.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Tristan was at his desk when he looked at his watch. He decided he'd give the lab one more hour before leaving for the day. It was technically quitting time, so he didn't feel guilty about sitting back and letting his mind wander to non work matters. After five or ten minutes though, he was jolted out of his thoughts when Mark's phone rang.

"Stevenson," he answered. He listened for a moment before responding. "All right, thank you," he said before hanging up the phone. Tristan looked at him with a raised brow. "The prints on the windowsill match the prints on the gun."

"Then let's go," Tristan said as they both stood up and walked toward the elevator. While they waited, his phone vibrated from his pocket. "DuGrey," he answered without looking to see who was calling.

"Tristan, what's your twenty?" Rory asked.

"We're heading to Tenth Avenue."

"Oh good, you heard. I'll see you there."

"Wait, what? Why are _you_ going there? How could you possibly know?" he asked in disbelief as he and Mark stepped into the elevator.

"I heard the police scanner."

"What are you talking about?" he asked in confusion.

"There was a domestic disturbance. I didn't catch the exact address, but I'm pretty sure it's either Roman or Ann's house."

"There was?" he asked quickly as they walked outside.

"Yes, you didn't know? Wait, why are you heading there if you didn't know?"

"For a different reason. Listen, maybe you shouldn't go there. Just hang back."

"Why? I'm already on my way."

"Well, go somewhere else. I'll tell you what happens."

"No. What's going on?"

"Nothing," he said before he hung up the phone and scowled at it a little, as though a facial expression could be transmitted through a phone. He looked to his partner. "Let's go faster."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

The cab Rory was in stopped a couple of blocks away from the address she had given. She looked ahead and could see the entire block was being barricaded by the police. Several police cars and an ambulance were parked on the street in front of Roman and Sarah Steinberg's house, lights flashing.

Rory quickly paid the driver and jumped out. She hurried over to where the street was blocked and looked around. When she was sure no one was looking, she slipped under the yellow tape. And even though it was starting to get dark out, she caught a glimpse of Tristan's car. It was a block away from the Steinberg houses. She ran over quickly and took in what was happening. Both Tristan and Mark were taking off their jackets and replacing them with vests with the word Police written on the front.

"Why are you putting that on?" Rory asked. Neither detective answered. Instead, they secured their vests and made sure their Glocks were loaded. "What are those for? What are you doing?" she asked, a little frantically. Again, she got no answer. The two men shut the car doors and started walking quickly towards Roman and Sarah's house. Rory followed, her one-inch heels click-clacked on the sidewalk.

"You're on the wrong side of the blockade, Mary. Go back," Tristan finally said darkly.

"Where are you going?" she asked again. She ignored his command and continued to walk quickly down the sidewalk to keep up with their longer strides. "What are you doing?"

"I'm doing my job. Do yours from back there."

"You can't go in there. After I got of the phone with you, I heard on the scanner that there were shots fired. Someone has a gun in there," she protested as they got closer to their destination.

"We _can_ go in there. We have guns, too," Tristan answered. He started glancing around, but Rory didn't seem to notice.

"Are you looking for something?" Mark asked.

"Yes, _that_," he answered, nodding at a fence that was in front of a window.

Stevenson continued down the sidewalk, but Tristan had stopped. Before Rory knew what happened, he had reached across her and cuffed her left wrist to the fence. She couldn't move more than a step away from where she was.

"Hey!"

"I'm going to go do my job and you're going to stay here," he said firmly. "You don't get to follow this time. This doesn't stand for fashion police," he said, pointing to his bullet proof vest.

"You don't have to chain me to a _fence_," she protested, indignantly.

"It's not really my first choice either, but it'll have to do," Tristan said as he took a couple steps to follow his partner. However, he stopped before he got very far and looked up at the sky dismally. "Damn it," he half groaned.

He turned back and his eyes darted around quickly. Upon seeing that everyone's attention was elsewhere, his hands dove into Rory's hair and he pressed his lips to hers quickly, though not without feeling. She gripped his arm with her non-cuffed hand as she kissed him back. He pulled away after a couple seconds and looked at her. "Just in case," he said.

Rory's hand held tightly to his arm as though she'd be able to stop him, but he was stronger and tore his arm away. "Just in case _what_?" she cried out as she watched him run down the sidewalk to catch up with Mark.

She miserably tugged her cuffed hand a little, but she wasn't going anywhere. Instead, she looked anxiously at the house they had entered and shivered a little. It seemed colder all of a sudden.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Inside the house, Tristan and Mark were in Sarah's kitchen, guns drawn and pointed at Ann. She had a gun of her own, and it was fixed on her sister-in-law.

"Ann, put the gun down," Mark instructed firmly. "You don't want to do this."

"My daughter didn't kill anyone," Ann said.

"We know," Tristan said. "So let us handle it. Put the gun down."

"Sarah was in the restroom that night, too. It wasn't just Amy. She knows who else came in. She knows who snuck out the window and she isn't telling you. She's going to let Amy take the blame. I know she knows more than she told you."

"She's crazy!" Sarah said, terrified. "Get her away from me!"

"We know it wasn't Amy," Mark said, reiterating what Tristan had said. "Her fingerprints weren't anywhere. We looked. She's in the clear."

"She is?" Ann asked.

"Yes. In fact, we were on our way to make an arrest before we came here," Tristan explained. "Now put the gun down."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory wasn't sure how long she'd been waiting before she saw a couple uniformed officers enter the house. When they came out again, they were leading Ann and Sarah Steinberg, who were both wearing handcuffs behind their backs. They were each put in the backseats of two separate police cars.

A minute later, Tristan and Mark walked out of the house and down the stairs. Rory let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding in. Both detectives went to talk with some of the other officers, as well as the captain, who had been waiting out on the street. After a while, a few of the police cars drove off. The ambulance, which didn't seem to have been used at all, drove away, as well.

Rory felt like she had to wait forever before Tristan finally glanced over and apparently remembered his other prisoner. He looked back at the men he was with and said something before he shoved his hands in his pockets and started down the street towards Rory. He stopped when he was about a foot away from her.

"What happened? Is everyone okay?" she asked him, her eyes surveying him quickly.

"Everyone is fine," he said reassuringly. "We made an arrest."

"It looks like you made two."

"Yeah. Ann kind of snapped and took things into her own hands. We had to arrest her."

"For what?"

"Criminal possession of a weapon."

"Then Sarah?"

"Her fingerprints were on the windowsill and the gun that was in Amy's purse."

"She did it? She killed two people?"

"That's where the evidence is pointing. We still have to talk to her some more. Maybe she'll stop lying now that she's in custody."

"I've been in her house," Rory said with wide eyes.

"I know. So have I."

"But you had a gun to defend yourself. And you had backup. I was all alone and defenseless."

"I don't think she was too concerned with you."

"But still."

"Hopefully she'll be locked up soon. She will be for the night, at least."

"Right. Good job."

He nodded. "Thanks," he said with a small grin. He took a small key out of his pocket then and reached over to unlock the hand cuffs. "You're free to go, ma'am."

"Thanks," she said, feeling slightly awkward. She crossed her arms to restrain herself from flinging them around him, to make sure he was really there and safe. But restrain herself she did.

"I should probably get back," Tristan said, tilting his head in the direction from which he had come.

"Right. You'll probably have a late night."

"There's a good chance. You'll be okay to get home?"

"Uh, yeah. I'll be fine. And actually, I should go back to work, too. I can file a quick report for tomorrow's paper. No names, of course."

"Arrests were made, you can name names. I give you permission."

"I don't need your permission to do anything," she quickly said, with a bit of defiance.

"Actually, that _was_ one of the stipulations when I became your source. And I told you to write more than you were going to, why are you arguing?"

She shrugged. "Out of habit? Arguing is one of our traditions."

"I guess. Anyway, I really do need to go."

"So go. I'm not stopping you." She kind of wanted him to kiss her again before leaving.

But he just stared at her for a couple beats. He may have been sharing the same sentiment. "Yeah, I'm going. Good night, Rory," he said before he broke eye contact and turned.

She watched him retreat before she sighed and shook her head a little.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

It was midday on Tuesday when Rory walked into the detective's squad, there weren't too many detectives there at the moment. Some were probably at lunch, while others were out on the streets doing their jobs. Rory went over to Tristan's desk. He was filling out paperwork and looked up when she sat down in the chair at the end of his desk.

"You didn't sleep here again, did you?" she asked.

"No, why?"

"Your face."

He rubbed a hand over his five o'clock shadow from the previous day and shrugged. "Oh. I was just too tired last night when I finally got home."

"I see. So, what's the good news?" she asked.

"Jehovah loves you?" he said with a raised brow.

"Okay, great. But what about the case?"

"Sarah Steinberg is guilty. She confessed last night."

"She did?"

"Yeah, it was too hard to keep lying since her fingerprints were on the windowsill—in two places."

"So she opened it and closed it?"

"Yes. The other day she actually said she closed it because _you_ had it opened. So, I knew she was lying."

Rory smiled. "Wait. I helped solve _both_ murders?"

Tristan shrugged and turned his palms up. "You might be able to look at it that way."

"I'm going to look at it that way."

"Anyway, it turns out you were right about the loudness of the hand drier. She pretended to walk out, but hid instead. So Amy thought she left, when really she was still in there. Since she climbed out the window, it was open when Dana went in a couple minutes later."

"So she was in there twice."

"Yes."

"_I_ said someone was in there twice."

"Did you? I can barely remember."

"I remember. I am _so_ good at solving mysteries," Rory said in a self-congratulatory tone.

"I suppose. I knew a few days ago she was the one who was lying, her story changed. So, yesterday we went to the gym where she works out every morning and got the surveillance tapes. She gets there at eight o'clock every morning, but do you want to take a guess at what day she was late?"

"Monday, two weeks ago."

"Yes. She was about thirty minutes later that day. Plus, the same cab picks her up every morning. We talked to the driver and he confirmed that she asked to be taken somewhere else that morning. It just so happened to be the same street where Daniel was found and at the right time. Her gym bag made a good hiding place for the gun, that's why it wasn't in their house when we looked when Roman was a suspect."

"But why did she do it?"

"It was the money. You've been in her house. It's not a Hartford mansion, but she likes nice—and expensive—things."

"I did notice that."

"I guess it wasn't just her husband who was upset about Daniel buying the inheritance—_she_ just decided to take some drastic action."

"But what was she going to accomplish by going to Daniel and Jason?"

"She was trying to talk them into selling the land and sharing the profits with her. Dana did say she thought Sarah was flirting with Jason. She was trying to talk him into selling the land and he wasn't going for it."

"It sounds like she had a dumb motive, it's just money."

"We've already discussed the quality of motives."

"Yeah, I guess. But still."

"Some people do stupid things over money."

"Apparently. Do you think she'd have gone to Amy or Ann next?"

"It's possible. She probably thought the males of the family would be more easily persuaded."

"Right, the weaker-minded sex."

"Right."

"I wonder if Roman is going to stay with her. He has someone else ready."

"I don't know."

"I bet Sarah would kill _him_ if she knew he was seeing someone on the side."

"Maybe."

"Do you think she would have killed all her in-laws until she got what she wanted?"

"Again, I don't know. I don't have all the answers, but I do know that she won't be able to kill anyone else now."

"So you probably saved some people's lives."

"Could be," he said with a nonchalant shrug.

"You're being very humble, considering."

"I was just doing my job."

"Still. You're not known for your humility."

"What _am_ I known for?"

Rory thought for a moment. "I don't actually know. I'm finding that old opinions have expiration dates."

"And what of new ones?" he asked with a brow just barely raised.

"Those are still being formed."

"Fair enough."

Neither said anything for a minute.

"Do you think Sarah will try to get a plea bargain, since she confessed and all?" Rory asked.

"Most likely, but you know where to get that confirmed."

"Yes, I do. What will happen with Ann? Will she be charged?"

"Probably. _Her_ best bet is to plead temporary insanity. She was pretty distraught about all that's happened with her family these last couple weeks."

"Couldn't she say she got a gun for self-defense?"

"No."

"Why not? She was in the room with a murderer."

"But _she_ didn't know that. I was a witness, and if asked to testify, I couldn't in good conscious say she had a gun for her protection."

"Oh."

"That's not to say I thought she was going to use it to kill anyone. I think she was just using it to appear more threatening. But still." Tristan looked back down and wrote something on the paper in front of him.

Rory cleared her throat. "So," she started. "Let me make sure I'm tallying the points correctly."

"Points?" Tristan asked, looking back up.

"Yes."

"Were we playing a game?"

"Well, we were having a disagreement. One that was on-going. I think we should clear it up now."

"I'm still not following."

"You said Harvard would triumph in the end. I just want to see if that's true or not."

"Oh. Tally away then."

"Okay. I was right about the motive—"

"But you thought it was one of Daniel's siblings."

"That's a technicality, I'm counting it. The inheritance was the motive—and I was right about it a long time ago, _way_ before you thought of it. I was right about the blow drier in the restroom making things noisy."

"But what made you think about how someone would dry their hands?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, why were you thinking about the restroom at all?"

"Oh. Because you thought someone could have snuck out onto the ledge. Which, by the way, was either really brave or really stupid of you to climb up on there like that, from eight stories up."

Tristan shrugged. "It's a fine line. Point for Harvard."

"Okay. I was the one who wanted to stake out the street, which led to finding the murder weapon."

"It sounds like _you_ did all the work, when you put it that way."

"I know. However, _you_ did a lot of the leg work. You were out finding information that I never could have got. Like security and surveillance videos. And you tracked down and talked to the cab driver. Plus, you disproved the theory about drugs being harvested on the land, as well as the theories about Ann killing her husband for insurance money or infidelity. There were a couple other ideas you figured out were dead ends."

"That's true."

"So, I guess we could call it a tie—what with my good ideas and your ability to look into things thoroughly."

"We could. But, I assume you'll be counting it as a win for Yale?" he asked knowingly.

"Yes. In fact, I think I'll be counting it as a win for Yale any time we have a tie—as a general rule of thumb. It seems fair to me. Unless, of course, _you_ have any objections."

He looked at her for a couple seconds before grinning and shaking his head. "No objections, your honor," he answered. "Go ahead and put the win in the Yale column."

Rory licked her index finger and drew a tally in the air. She watched him as he looked down to continue filling out his paperwork.

"Hey, I have a joke," she said after a few minutes.

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"Is it any good this time?" he asked, looking back up.

"I think so."

"Go for it then. Dazzle me with your wit."

"Okay. There was a lawyer who was driving his BMW, and he ran into a tree. When a police officer got there, the lawyer was distraught about totaling his sports car. And the officer said, 'Oh my God, you're bleeding, and your left arm is gone!' So the lawyer looks down and complains, 'My Rolex, my Rolex!'"

Tristan smiled. "That was a little better."

"Thanks. I thought you might appreciate the subject matter."

"I did."

"And speaking of lawyers, I think I have an idea about Jacobs and why he doesn't seem to like you."

"You're just full of theories. What's your idea?"

"Well, I've been in his office—"

"I'm sorry."

"And I've seen his diplomas on the wall."

"So?"

"So, he went to Northwestern and DePaul."

"So?"

"Well, he probably enjoys getting to boss around an intelligent Ivy League man."

"Did you just call me intelligent?" he asked with interest.

"Yes."

"Was it painful to admit?"

"I've said it before."

"And it always sounds odd, coming from you."

"Anyway, back to what I was saying."

"Right, I'm intelligent."

"I meant the part about the schools Jacobs went to."

"Oh, that. I don't know. Statistics say Ivy League graduates don't do as well in the courtroom as their less educated constituents."

"Have you shared that statistic with him?"

"I have not," Tristan answered with a grin and shake of his head. "So, you think he has Ivy League envy?"

"It's possible. Plus, there's the fact that you get to run around and find the evidence. He has to sit in an office and prepare witnesses."

"Mm-hmm."

"You wear a gun and he carries a briefcase. Your job is clearly more exciting than his."

"Clearly."

"And it's perfectly respectable. How could saving people not be respectable? You make the world a little safer."

"I do what I can." He looked back down and Rory didn't make move to leave.

A minute later she spoke again. "Do you do anything to celebrate?"

He looked back up with furrowed brows. "What?"

"Do you celebrate after you solve a case?"

"Sure. I celebrate by filling out the fun paperwork. It gets pretty crazy sometimes."

"Oh."

"And maybe I'll have a drink when I get home later."

"Oh, sounds good."

A few more minutes ticked by. Rory was starting to fell anxious for some reason. Her eyes wandered around the precinct.

"Do you come here much?" Tristan asked without looking up.

"What?" she looked back over quickly.

"Do you cover cases from the twenty-first much? You once said you come round fairly often."

"Oh. Yeah, kind of. It depends. There are a few of us who report crime and not everyone covers homicide."

"That sounds about right. Not all the detectives here investigate homicides."

"Right. Plus, those of us who do report them rotate. It depends on who's already following a case when the murders take place. And there are a few other precincts we cover."

"I see. So, you have other sources."

"Yes, I do. But none of them tell me as much as you have. I have to be cleverer with those investigations. I guess they don't trust me with information."

"And you think _I_ trust you with information?"

She looked him dead in the eye. "Yes. You do."

He just smirked slightly before looking back down. "So, we'll see more of each other then," he commented.

"More likely than not. Although, I'm not sure when I'll get assigned to the same case as you again. It'll happen eventually, I just don't know when that'll be."

"I see."

"Plus, I'll be doing some follow up, like attending Sarah's arraignment."

"Sure. I might be in attendance for that, as well."

"Maybe I'll save you a seat."

"Thanks," he said with a small grin and glanced up at her fleetingly.

Rory sighed.

He was wondering how long she was going to sit there stalling.

"I guess I should get going," she said, a bit disappointedly. But she didn't get up. "You owe me," she said suddenly and somewhat forcefully.

Tristan looked up, perplexed. "I _owe_ you?"

"Yes."

"How so?"

"We went to lunch last week and I paid."

"And we went to breakfast Saturday and _I_ paid."

"I got us coffee the week before."

"But I got us lunch a couple days before that—which was a whole meal. You just picked up coffee."

"We walked around the block one day and I paid for the hotdogs. That with the coffee should count."

"Okay, fine. But it still sounds like we're even."

"The art show!" she exclaimed.

He raised a brow. "What about the art show?"

"You were never formally invited. So you weren't accounted for when hor d'oeuvres were ordered."

"And I didn't have any."

"Oh. Right," Rory said, deflated.

"How about we go to lunch?" he asked. "Then you can owe _me_."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she asked, getting a little bad-tempered.

"Hey, I'm just trying to help you out, here. It sounds like you want me to take you to eat a meal. You're apparently very hungry."

"No—I just thought—but . . . never mind," she said, frustrated. "Forget it."

"No, no, let's go get lunch. I have time."

"I can't now."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm working."

"It doesn't _look_ like you're working."

"Well I am. And I've already had lunch, I can't have two lunches in one day. Plus, I still have to go upstairs to talk to your friend."

"Fine. When _will_ you be available?" he asked with a pleasant grin.

"Tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Yes."

"Like, dinner?"

"Yes."

"I don't know, that _sounds_ like a date."

"I know what it _sounds_ like," Rory said through gritted teeth.

Tristan thought it would be best if he _not_ let her see his amusement. It was pretty fun to watch her squirm in agitation. "Does it sound like a date because we apparently go on a lot of non-dates, and it would be another? Or does it sound like a date because it would _be_ a date?"

Rory sighed impatiently. "It sounds like a date because it would be a date," she stated slowly.

"Okay, I just want to be clear. Because when I'm on a date, I like to say good night the naughty way," he explained. "And between you me, I didn't close the deal on my last two dates. Once because I _talked_ too much about a girl who was getting on my nerves and the next because I was _interrupted_ by the girl who was getting on my nerves."

Rory decided she'd wait until later to determine whether she was happy or annoyed with that admission. "Is that a yes?" she asked.

Tristan thought for a moment. "I don't really feel like going out tonight," he said with a sigh.

Rory felt her heart sink—pretty hard. "Oh, well, I guess you must be pretty tired. You had a late night."

He shook his head and put his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose, as though he was starting to get a headache from the conversation. "That isn't what I meant," he said, taking his phone out of his pocket.

"What did you mean, then?" she asked, tonelessly. Great, she thought, now he's texting. He can't even give his full attention.

"I mean that I feel like staying in. Maybe order pizza and watch a movie."

"Well have fun with that," she snapped, standing up to go.

"So what time are you coming over?"

She turned back to him. "What?"

"What time are you coming over?" he repeated, a little slower. He was still concentrating on his text.

"Over where?"

"To my apartment. For the pizza and movie."

"I thought you had a rule about girls not going to your place."

"I never said it was a rule. But keep talking and it can be. And you aren't a girl, you're a woman."

"I don't know where you live."

Tristan looked back up and put his phone in his pocket after he'd pressed send. He paused a couple seconds before they both heard Rory's cell phone vibrate and chime from inside her purse. "Now you do. You never named a time."

"Will seven work for you?"

"Seven sounds perfect. And you should wear your proton pack."

"You feel like busting some ghosts?"

"Well, it _will_ be Halloween in a couple days."

"What if I want to put on fish net stockings and watch _Rocky Horror Picture Show_?"

"Then I'd say tough luck. It's my place and my TV. But feel free to wear the fish net stockings."

"Fine. I'll see you at seven."

"Don't be late," he said sternly. "And you should put your hair down. It looks better down."

"Well, you should do something about your face, it was scratchy last night."

"Deal with it."

She rolled her eyes at him in response before turning to leave.

Tristan put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair as he watched Rory walk out of the precinct. He smirked a little and shook his head before he went back to filling out his paperwork.

_**Fin**_

**A/N:** If you'd like some extra scenes (BTSS = Between the Stories Scenes), go to my LJ.


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